


The Horned Crown

by scarlett_the_seachild



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Magic, Patricide, Racism, Sexual Content, arthuriana, early christianity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8952211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlett_the_seachild/pseuds/scarlett_the_seachild
Summary: Take one boy. Raise him in an ordinary household with no knowledge of his true identity. Then, when the time is not so ripe, unload on him the burdens of:-1) state, and all the other trials that come with being king of England2) a passively reluctant wife3) a violent and embittered best friend with a temper problem4) a prophecy that demands his death5) crippling anxiety.It's a lot for a seventeen year old to handle.





	1. Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> Hello  
> as you may or may not know I've been wrestling within the grips of an Arthurian obsession for quite some time, particularly the desire for a YA retelling. but you know, none really exists so I figured the only way to read one was to write it myself.  
> The basis for this story is Malory's La Morte D'Arthur which I'm currently studying at uni with some references to other arthurian texts eg Gawain and the Green Knight. It also borrows from Marion Zimmer Bradley's the Mists of Avalon which is one of the greatest novels in the written world.  
> I don't expect many people to read this (the fandom is upsettingly small!) but if you do I would be so grateful if you'd drop me a comment letting me know what you think.

The man grinned at Arthur, showing broken teeth. “£10,” he said. “Not a penny under.”

He was holding the horse’s reigns slackly, a show of looseness that was as deceptive as the smile he wore. The beast’s ears were twitching anxiously and his two front legs were spread out slightly to the sides before him, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed. Arthur wondered what cause he had to be so nervous.

The merchant was still grinning. “£10,” he repeated. “Come on boys. Have I ever let you down?”

He hadn’t, but Arthur was pretty sure this was because he had never met them before.

Arthur was rather accustomed to meeting horse merchants. “Here,” his father had said, thrusting a sack of coins into Kay’s outstretched palm. “It’s about time you had a new courser. Buy yourself one at the market today, and take your brother with you.”

“Why?” both Kay and Arthur had queried in irritation.

Ector fixed his sons with a condescending look, the one he normally reserved for his eldest and, when it came to matters of war or cooked meat, his wife. “Because maybe then you won’t come back with some crippling Spanish monster only to have it go lame in a matter of months,” he’d replied shortly. “And _I_ won’t get ripped off.”

Again it was both boys who protested and, as usual, it was Kay’s voice who won out. “I _know_ about horses,” he had said crossly.

“Arthur knows more,” Ector answered bluntly. “And I can’t afford another con. He goes with you. And don’t look so hearty about it,” he turned to reprimand his youngest. “In this house, we use our skills to _help_ one another.”

Thus Kay had spent most of the morning kicking at the ground and chuntering under his breath that he had never once had any sly dogson-of-a-whore pull the wool over his eyes. Now however, he was looking at the merchant as though he had a valid point.

“That’s decent,” he said, hurriedly and quietly under his breath. “Come on Arthur. You’ve got to admit that’s decent.”

Arthur didn’t reply but crossed his arms over his chest and began to walk, very slowly, around the courser. As he neared its hindquarters, the horse huffed warningly from its large nostrils. The tendons in the merchant’s neck flickered beneath his skin in apprehension, his tongue darting out quickly over thin, nervous lips.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “A little skittish, isn’t he?”

The merchant affected surprise at the question. “Skittish? No,” he waved dismissively. “He just knows his master is all.”

The horse’s back legs were quivering. Arthur bent down to expect them, taking care to keep a considerable distance. Even so, neither the merchant nor Kay’s flinch was lost on him as he leaned nearer in his examination. The horse exhaled again, throwing back his rather disproportionately large head. The whole front of him was large, which was what had drawn Kay, excitedly, to him.

“Look at the size of his shoulders,” Kay pointed out eagerly. “Just _imagine_ the power there!”

“You have good taste sir,” the merchant nodded his enthusiasm. “You won’t find a chest like that on just any Friesian. And a strapping lad like you needs a good, strong big build.”

Pleased with the compliment, Kay stood a little straighter, squaring already broad shoulders. Arthur ignored them both, bending lower to the ground in order to better examine the courser. All the bulk was packed into his upper back and shoulders so that he stood somewhat lumpy, like too many boulders stuffed inside a canvas sack. Behind him, the back of his body dragged like something of an afterthought. As he straightened up the horse’s triangular ears flitted in his direction, front hooves pawing the ground nervously. Shoving his hands decisively in the pockets of his breeches, he turned back to face Kay.

“There are a couple of splints beneath the hocks,” he told him bluntly. “They’ll be alright for now but without treatment they could get worse, and he won’t be able to run so fast. He might even go lame completely. You’ve been working him too hard.”

Kay looked crestfallen, his previously proud shoulders slumping. His disappointment, however, was nothing to match the merchant’s, who looked very much as though he had just been struck.

“Nonsense,” he declared brusquely, patting the horse’s flank in self-defence. “You don’t get strength like this but for frequent training. _“‘Woking him too hard.”_ What rubbish.”

“His creast and shoulders are impressive sizes, I’ll give you that,” Arthur replied, addressing Kay. “But with splints like those he’s not worth £10. £5, maybe.”

The merchant released a strangled sound of outrage. _“£5?”_ he sputtered. “You insult me.”

“A penny over £7 is an insult to our intelligence,” Arthur shrugged. “I don’t mean to be rude, but any more would be throwing money away on an investment like this.”

The merchant swore loudly. Arthur looked questioningly at Kay. He was biting his lip, chewing thoughtfully and Arthur could tell he was torn between wanting to take Arthur’s advice and enforcing his own judgement.

At last, sense won out. Huffing a little sigh he gestured before the merchant, his manner apologetic but resolute when he spoke to him. “We’ll give you six for him.”

The merchant looked murderous. “£8.50,” he conceded after a long and bitter pause.

Kay looked at Arthur who shrugged and, slightly embarrassed, looked down at his feet. Now that he had finished assessing the courser his part was over. He had little skill when it came to bargaining prices. More often than not, when he went to town to undertake an errand Ector would balance the scales by sending Kay along with him, for fear that Arthur would yield to his old habit of accepting the first price offered out of sheer awkwardness.

Kay, who had rather less qualms where conflict was concerned, was more than content to reassert his authority in this respect. “Seven,” he said stoutly. “You heard him. Any more than that’s a fleece.”

He held the merchant’s gaze, refusing to break eye contact even as his expression grew more sour, his lip curling in anger. Finally, the merchant gave in. “Very well,” he accepted, sounding as though he had been forced to swallow poison. “Seven it is.”

Kay reached into the money pouch to pay the merchant. Meanwhile Arthur avoided the merchant’s gaze, conscious of the less than friendly glares in his direction and switched his attention to sifting the ground with his feet. When Kay had signed the necessary forms and the horse was untethered, Arthur put aside his awkwardness enough to offer the merchant a polite “good day”, however he received no response apart from a black look before he was turning his back resolutely against him. Kay however, buoyed by the satisfaction of a successful purchase, noticed nothing and as they led the horse through town he slung a heavy arm around his brother’s shoulders in an uncharacteristic show of affection.

“Well done Arthur,” he said happily. “Looks like your pedantry paid off for once.”

Arthur frowned. “I am not a pedant,” he argued. “I just don’t see anything wrong with being thorough.”

Kay pulled a face like he was trying to keep himself from smirking. “Well, whatever you want to call it,” he answered dismissively. “We reached a fine price for the beast.”

Arthur was non-committal. “We should have looked around a little longer,” he said.

Kay made a disdainful noise through his nose. “And have me waste a day while you go round measuring tail length?” he snorted. “No thanks. I know you. If you had your way, we’d be camping out in the fields before you were ready to go home. Besides, he’s a noble steed, is he not?”

He reached for the courser’s neck and patted it fondly. Arthur said nothing. He didn’t want to begrudge Kay his good cheer, but if it had been him he would have spent more time looking for a better horse. Of course Kay, with his characteristic impulsivity would have been loathe to spend an afternoon or longer on a decision that could be made in five minutes, regarding such exercise as a chore. Arthur wouldn’t have minded. Regardless of how he had protested to Ector, Kay was right. Arthur could easily have spent a day looking at horses, if he had his way.

They walked through town together at an ambling pace, Kay whistling cheerfully, Arthur lost in thought about how he was going to win over Kay’s old horse, an ill-tempered, selective beast that had matched his previous owner’s temperament perfectly and of whom Arthur was still slightly wary. Around them the market bustled and squawked like a live thing, a hundred different voices rising up above their brightly coloured stands to battle it out in the air, their tents and awnings and canopies flashing like standards. Catching the sight of a stall selling riding equipment Kay was quickly lured away to inspect discount prices on the darkly gleaming leather saddles, ignoring Arthur’s protests against spending an extortionate amount at a market when they had a perfectly good tanner at home. When Kay replied something along the lines of Arthur also being at perfect liberty to swim in shit, Arthur rolled his eyes and moved away to examine some of the other merchandise.

There was a fine display of weaponry that he couldn’t help but glance over, despite the fact that Ector also employed a very capable of blacksmith. He had a very strict, utilitarian approach to his craft and as a result his work was honest, efficient and enduring, but not very pretty. These blades however possessed an aesthetic charm completely redundant in an object used for slicing and hacking but which Arthur couldn’t help but sigh over. Both Kay and Ector had teased him on separate occasions for his appreciation for pretty weapons and he supposed there was something rather girlish in the way his eyes went automatically to the ornately engraved hilt before the graceful sweep of the blade but he couldn’t bring himself to care. They could swing their Danish axes all they liked; he, Arthur, wanted a proper sword.

Once Kay had finished bartering prices over stirrups and a saddle, Arthur was forced to tear himself away from the weapon display and follow him on through the market. The day was bright and clear, the air crisp with the clean cold of winter and heavy with smells; freshly baked bannock, cheeses, hay, goats and other animals chewing idly at their own mouths and the ropes that tied them to the stalls, dark eyes heavy with ennui. Arthur patted their heads as he went past and they turned their wet noses into his palm, nostrils twitching hopefully for salt. The woman vendor smiled at him and offered eggs and strawberries.

“John!” exclaimed Kay suddenly and Arthur’s gaze was pulled from the stall to see a group of men some distance away, all armed and wearing the dark wool and worn leather of mercenaries. At Kay’s call one looked up and smiled and Arthur recognised John Garit, a man who took regular contracts from Ector and in whose army he had served countless times. He waved them over and Kay and Arthur approached, clasping hands with him and his men warmly.

“Hello lads,” John greeted them, thumping Arthur affectionately on the shoulder. “Good to see you. What have you been buying?”

“This,” said Kay proudly, pulling on the reigns on the new courser.

John’s eyes narrowed as he examined the animal before he nodded approvingly. “A fine beast,” he acknowledged. “Strong shoulders. Although not so promising in the hindquarters. I hope you fetched a decent price for him, Arthur?”

“We did,” Arthur replied, unable to stop himself from grinning at Kay’s sulky expression. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, same as usual,” John reached past curtains of straggly black hair to scratch at the back of his neck. “Your father’s received several complaints of bandits terrorising the northern roads. Always happens this time of year; people get cold, and desperate. Thought we’d see how many we can round up.”

Arthur nodded and for a while they talked with John about his travels and other contracts. A few weeks ago, someone had paid him a hefty sum to dispatch a griffin that had been harassing a small village. Arthur, who had listened enraptured to the townsfolk’s description of an enormous, monstrous creature with the head of a bird and the body of a fully-grown lion, tried to hide his disappointment upon the discovery that the culprit had in fact been nothing more than a regular, although admittedly very large, eagle that had grown a taste for goats and sheep.

Having now lost interest, as John demonstrated the width of the eagle’s wingspan to an enraptured Kay, Arthur let his gaze wonder to the other mercenaries. They were leaning companionably against the fence, smoking and sharing pipe tobacco as they teased and bantered with each other. Arthur’s eye was caught as one of the mercenaries lifted the hem of his shirt to reveal a nasty, barely-healed scar which he showed proudly to his friend, wincing a little as he did so. It looked like half the flesh below the rib had been hacked away. Arthur gestured curiously.

“Griffin do that?” he asked.

The mercenary chuckled and shook his head. “Greater monsters out there than griffins boy,” he replied grimly. “This here’s the result of a Saxon war party.”

Arthur felt his insides go cold even as Kay whipped round, startled out of his conversation with John. “Saxons?” he echoed, the excitement in his voice not quite enough to disguise the fear. “Not _here,_ surely?”

“Might as well have been,” the mercenary shrugged. “We met them crossing the border into Calleva not three days hence. They’d sacked all the villages within ten miles, you could still see the smoke rising behind them. Could smell it on the air, even.”

Arthur swore softly, Kay very loudly. “How have they become so bold?” he demanded indignantly.

John shrugged. “Who is there to keep them at bay,” he asked. “Now that the High King is dead? Uther left no heir. The lords of the realm are too busy spitting and measuring each other’s cocks to fight Saxons. It’s wreaking havoc through the country and the bastards are making the most of it. Kicking us while we’re vulnerable.”

“I heard Uther did leave an heir,” Kay was frowning. “Men sweeping up and down the country looking for him.”

Another mercenary snorted loudly. “Some milkmaid’s bastard no doubt,” he said savagely. “He’ll never be accepted as High King.”

“Britain has no shortage of milkmaid’s bastards,” another replied. “You know what Uther was like.”

The men murmured in agreement. Arthur too had heard as much. Ector, as loyal and true a servant as any prince could wish for, would rather die than speak ill of the ruler God had appointed. Even so, Arthur had gathered from the tone of his voice and the careful hesitancy with which he picked his words Ector’s disapproval for Uther’s less than scrupulous habits.

John was sighing, rubbing at his eyes with thick-gloved hands. “It’ll mean the end of Britain for sure, unless a successor is found,” he said heavily. “It’s just like when Ambrosius died. The country was on the precipice of destruction for months.”

“At least the risk then was only Lot and Gorlois,” the scarred mercenary replied. “I’d rather have the country hacked to pieces by Englishmen than burned and pillaged by Saxon dogs.”

“I can’t really see what difference it makes,” asked Arthur. “If the end is still the same.”

The men looked at him, weary eyes boring down heavily and Arthur felt at once as though he had said something very childish. This was confirmed as John laid a hand on his shoulder and said to him gently: “Tell us that the next time you come across a Saxon war party.”

Rebuffed, Arthur felt the heat crawl into his cheeks even as John lifted the hand on his shoulder and gave him a hearty clap. Kay however made no secret of rolling his eyes and Arthur knew he was irritated with him for making them appear green and naïve. The fact that Kay was still incredibly green made little difference; he never could resist painting himself a man in front of the mercenaries, whom he had always been very impressed by, nor any other soldier who had seen real battle and not just tournaments and child’s play.

They said goodbye to John and his men and began to make their way on through the market. As they left Kay slapped an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, however Arthur felt the difference in the fond way he had done so earlier and the aggressive heaviness with which he steered Arthur away, as if anxious to prevent him from doing further damage.

“For God’s sake,” he hissed once they were a good distance away. “Why can’t you just learn to keep your mouth shut?”

Immediately, Arthur felt ruffled with indignation. “Oh come _on,”_ he answered defensively. “As if there’s any difference whatsoever in letting Englishmen tear up the country like wolves around a carcass and giving it to the Saxons…the outcome’s still the same, people are still going to suffer-”

“-You know about horses Arthur,” Kay interrupted him sharply. “And dogs. That doesn’t mean you have even the slightest clue of _anything else._ So do yourself a favour and shut up about things you know nothing about. You’ll only embarrass yourself, and _me.”_

Here Kay glowered so fiercely at Arthur that, indignant though he was, realised there was very little point in arguing about it further. Instead he rolled his eyes and dropped the subject, shrugging off Kay’s heavy grip of his shoulders so that he could put more distance between them.

They walked slowly back through the market, Kay coaxing his horse who it transpired was quite as skittish as Arthur had guessed. Arthur noted with satisfaction the degree of impatience in Kay’s voice as he urged it on through the crowds and the equally irritated glances he sent in Arthur’s direction. Once they reached the edge of the market square they took the road meant for riders and pedestrians in order to avoid getting in the way of rambling carts, the path of which led through the forest. Despite the fact that it was still broad daylight, the trees spaced far enough apart that the sun fell easily through the branches they moved more or less cautiously. Most robberies happened on the way to the market rather than back, when the travellers were still flushed with coin and excitement. Nevertheless, neither Kay nor Arthur wanted to take their chances, what with John’s talk of bandits and Saxon raids, particularly as they had neglected to bring a manservant.

Arthur thought this might have been on Kay’s mind for as they headed deeper into the forest his hands twitched towards the pommel of his sword, hanging ever-present from his waist. The courser noticed, its big nostrils trembling nervously and Arthur reached up to stroke his neck. A slight breeze rustled the branches overhead, casting dappled shadows on the earth below. It was a clear, bright day and the sky shone a cloudless blue through the greenery. Even so Arthur kept a firm grip on the horse’s reigns, a grip that grew even tighter as the sound of a croaking voice could be heard from amongst the trees.

At once Kay halted and his hands which had previously grazed the handle of his sword now gripped it firmly. “What on earth,” he muttered to Arthur, his voice quiet to show that he wasn’t worried, not yet.

The croaking grew louder, and Arthur realised it was singing although at first it was hard to tell. It sounded a lot like the noise insects made when they rubbed their wings together on the riverbank, or even the sound through reeds they sat on, whenever the wind blew by. Subconsciously, Kay stepped closer to Arthur so that their shoulders bumped. His head was tilted slightly in the direction of the sound and Arthur knew that he was listening for the presence of more than one man.

“Who goes?” he asked, rather more challengingly than Arthur would have done under the circumstances.

Arthur rather expected that there would be a delay. He didn’t know why, only that he felt in these kind of situations there should be some hesitation. He held his breath in anticipation of suspense, only to release it quickly when an old man came hobbling out from beneath the cover of the trees.

“Tis only I, only I,” the old man sung cheerfully. “Nought a need for swordes, I never didst mean harm to nunne.”

At once Arthur felt Kay’s shoulders sag beside his own and Arthur wondered whether his spirits had with them. He had looked for a moment very eager for a fight. Now his hand dropped from his sword as he crossed his arms over his chest, surveying the old man with evident annoyance.

Arthur didn’t know why old people bothered Kay so much. He supposed it had something to do with self-reflection.

“Is there something we can help you with?” asked Kay, quite rudely.

The old man tittered, a rasping, phlegmy thing which turned quickly into a cough, further pronouncing Kay’s look of disgust. Arthur shoved him aside to approach him. He was dressed in the tattings of a beggar, wearing a ragged, dirty tunic and threadbare mantle that was more holes and trailing wool than covering. His hair and beard too was dirty, ragged and trailing, as if it had not touched water for many weeks. In one hand, he clasped a gnarled old stick which he leant on heavily, although he moved with such agility Arthur couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was affectation.

The old man shook his head, causing his grey, scraggy locks to bounce around his shoulders. “More right is it seyde of mine entente to aide thee,” he replied. “That is, if it be thy dever to wyne the gates of Heaven through the given of almes-dede.”

He held out his hand, withered and cracked with long, curved nails. Kay and Arthur exchanged a tired look. Then Arthur loosened his money pouch, withdrawing two silver coins which he laid onto the beggar’s palm. Immediately the old man’s fingers snapped around the coins as if it were some sort of mechanism, slipping them speedily into the depths of his cloak.

“Grammercy,” the old man grinned through very few teeth. “Goddess keep thee, and rewarde thee for thy generosity, as surely as She willst for thy genytrottys.”

Here the old man began to cackle, a high-pitched wheezing sound that Arthur could hear shaking his spindly ribs. His chest shook so badly Arthur feared it might cave in even as he lent on his stick for support, wiping tears of mirth from his rheumy eyes. Kay and Arthur exchanged another look. _Oh God,_ Kay’s said. _Look what you’ve gone and done now._

When at last the beggar’s laughter had subsided to quiet, breathy chuckles, Arthur took it upon himself to address him again. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he began gently. “But we really must be going.”

“Aye and with goodly haste,” the old man nodded. “Speed thee on towards thy fate, for nunne can defyghe that whiche She has forecaste. Least of all thee, Arthur kynge’s sonne.”

Silence fell but for the rustling of the trees and the grunting of the courser, pawing impatiently at the damp Earth. Finally, once it had stretched on for far too long Arthur decided it might be for the best if he were the one to break it.

“Sorry?” he said politely.

The old man made an ugly wet sound, smacking his thin lips against his teeth in irritation. “Why dost thou feign deafynesse?” he asked, jabbing at Arthur with his stick. “Thou heardst me well enough. Thy nomen est Arthur, sonne of the dragon whom the comyns did call ‘Uther’. Now he rests in the fragrant bosom of the Goddess, to whom he served with goodly worship, if, by trowthe, some sway to the askynges of those men thou Christians callest wise. Wise! Those bawdy priests, and blody berenne most ofte, as well as I wyte. But in Her wisdom she took him from this lyfe, before to those wretches he was too fast beholdynge. And soon She will place the hornéd crown on thy head, and set thee up as High Kynge as thy father was before, servant to nunne but her worship that thou mayst do Her will, and in Her blesséd name.”

He smacked his lips again, as if they had grown suddenly dry and shrugged his cloak around his shoulders, shuddering at a non-existent breeze. Kay and Arthur watched in dumfounded silence as he gripped his stick and began to trace lines in the earth at his feet. Neither of them could bring themselves to look at the other, not knowing whether they should remain dutifully paralysed with shock, as they rather felt they ought, or burst out with laughter. The old man’s words had lodged themselves in Arthur’s head, ringing with the faint certainty of an echo: _Arthur…son of the dragon whom the commons did call Uther._ Dimly, he remembered with amusement how the mercenaries had talked of the hunt for the High King’s heir. He fought the urge to smirk, not wanting to offend the old man who was smiling at him now with disturbing familiarity.

Chancing a glance at Kay, he saw that his brother was thinking along the same lines. “High King, eh?” he said jovially, grinning at Arthur. “Is that so? And tell me Wise One, how is it you come to know my brother’s name?”

The beggar’s gaze swivelled from Arthur to Kay’s. His expression, and the way his lip curled with disdain, seemed as though he had just spotted him for the first time and found his presence wanting.

“I mervayle that thou presumest to call him so,” he said, squinting at Kay. “In lyghte of all I have seyde. His brethrene thou arst only as one of that grete brotherhood, that sitteth upon the table round. But go, avoyde on hence, for I would nought have ado with thee. Mine adresse is to Arthur, whose nom I had well wytte ever since ye were a babe, for it was I who bequeathed thee with it.”

He tapped at one of the markings he had scratched into the earth with his stick. Despite himself, Arthur leaned in to get a better look. The old man was pointing at a pair of strange, zig-zagging lines that met with an oval in the middle. On the left of this odd shape was another line that curved like a snake, on the right a drawing that might have been some kind of bird. Looking at it from its proper angle, Arthur saw that the middle figure bore some resemblance to the antlered head of a stag.

“The time of our next meet shall stondeth one monthe hence,” the old man told Arthur solemnly. “On the day thy cross-chaffynge brethrene defame as ‘Christmasse’. Meanwhile I will abdye, for I have the damsoles’ busynesse to attend. Till then adieu, and Goddesse be with thee in the long hours betwene.”

With that he straightened up and, with an odd sort of half-salute to Arthur, began to shuffle off again from the path and into the forest. Arthur just had time to watch him pick his way through the trees until he was enveloped by their dank green darkness, the only sign that he had ever been there at all being the muddy drawings he had left in the dirt.

After a few seconds of bewildered silence had gone by, Kay bent down to inspect the signs. For a moment he stared hard at them, his brow furrowed as if searching for some deeper meaning behind the crude illustrations. Then, finding none he straightened up and turned to Arthur, his hands deep in the pockets of his breeches.

“Well,” he said wryly. “If all it takes to be announced High King of Britain is a few pennies to mad old beggars, perhaps I should be charitable more often.”

Arthur laughed, scratching the back of his head ruefully. “I wonder how many times he’s given the same speech today,” he guessed. “Must get tiring.”

“Not many I’d wager, by the look of him,” Kay replied, wrinkling his nose. “Or the smell. You’d think he’d be able to afford a new cloak at least, with a mouth like that.”

He scuffed at the ground with the toe of his boot, blotting the old man’s drawings with dirt. Arthur watched him absently, running his words back and forth through his mind. Nothing the old man had said had caused him particular concern. Even the fact that he’d known his name was not especially surprising; these were Ector’s lands after all, and his sons were fairly recognisable even amongst the lowliest of his tenets.  He did not particularly relish the thought of seeing the old man again, however. Regardless of the simple insanity of his statement, it had not been the most comfortable encounter.

He realised Kay was looking at him oddly and he brought himself back down to earth. “Sorry,” he said, shaking his head to clear it of troubling thoughts. “Come on. We should get going.”

Kay nodded and, with a jerk on the reluctant horse’s reigns they continued on through the forest, leaving the mutterings of the old man and his sketches in the dirt behind them.


	2. Morgane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spelling is the bane of my existence. With this story i'm going for a kind of mix between the old Welsh spellings and the latinised versions; so Guinevere/Gwenhyfar = Gwenever, Morgana/Morgaine = Morgane. With Lancelet I'm following Bradley by going down the Anglo-Saxon route rather than the French because I think it's much prettier and he's much pretty

Far away to the South, the sun sets and rises within the confines of a stone circle. Each daily salutation is greeted by the sound of Church bells from the monastery, ringing out across the Tor as it stands overlooking the Lake and marshlands, as far as one can see it. The fringes of the Lake and the hill that rises out of it are shrouded in mist, so thick one might think they stood on the edge of the world; however, a certain type of traveller picking their way through the woods and bogs at the Lake’s edge might, if he were looking the right way, be able to make out a line of shore on the other side where an island sits, hidden from view like an old man peeking from behind the fog of his pipe.

And if a certain type of traveller were to raise his arms and lift the mists, he would see more still. The fog would fall away and the sun would shine instead on a strip of land of impossible green, as if just fresh from the fall of new rain. Here a Tor also rises, glittering over the Island as a ghostly mirror image of the one at Glastonbury, a pricking needle above the heads of the apple trees. The chiming of the Church bells fades to be replaced by the rush of waterfalls, slipping beneath bridges and causeways and narrow dams, pearly froth nearly indistinguishable from the white stone buildings.

Behind the walls of the cloisters, stone steps lead to an apple grove where, at the base of one of the biggest trees, Morgane now sat. She was cross-legged, her back against the trunk of the tree in a rather uncomfortable position, due to the fact that her limbs were actually a lot longer than she had accounted for. Her knees stuck out awkwardly from beneath the hem of her dress, her fingers twitching from where they lay atop them as she observed idly to herself that this had really been a lot easier two months ago.

There was also the fact that she had been sitting in this position for more or less three hours.

Her back was starting to hurt. She shifted so that she was more efficiently leaning against the tree-trunk, simultaneously seeking to alleviate the ache at the base of her spine. Her knees complained bitterly as she did so, one foot resting on the flat of her calf and she felt a jab of impatience at the obvious decline in her flexibility. Just a couple of months ago, she had been able to retain this position for an entire afternoon. Now it felt as though her whole body were conspiring against her, her muscles muttering sulky reproaches to one another in the hope of spreading mutiny.

The grove was quiet, the pickers having retired for the afternoon, and there was no one around but herself. There was no wind, there rarely ever was, and so there was no sound except for the birds flitting distractedly from one branch to another, their gentle weight or the brush of a wing occasionally causing an apple to snap off and fall onto the grass with a dull thud. Morgane found this distracting in a way she never would have if her mind were properly focused. Usually she was good at tuning out background noise, pushing past the different sounds until they all sort of came together in the cohesive hum of nature, a vague tuneful awareness that El said should always be at the back of one’s mind anyway. Today however, she found the cheerful chirruping of the birds just as annoying as the ache in her muscles.

When El had told her to go outside and meditate for the afternoon, she had not been impressed. “Don’t you think I’m a little,” _Mature? Advanced? The best student in Avalon?_ “Old,” she settled. “For contemplation?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” El had replied with her typical airiness. “Can you ever be too old for contemplation? I, for one, never stop noticing new things in nature. Just yesterday I found myself staring at a stone I’d found by the river bank for five hours straight. Saw patterns there I’d never even noticed before.”

“So that’s what you want me to do,” Morgane deadpanned. “Stare at a stone for five hours?”

“Well maybe not that long,” El shrugged. “But then again, it entirely depends.”

As often happened during communication with El, Morgane had felt herself becoming frustrated. Knowing this was not an appropriate emotion for an advanced priestess to portray, she had suppressed her annoyance and forced her tone into one of careful politeness. “Entirely depends on _what?”_

El made an ambiguous gesture which involved flapping her hands like she was trying to bat away an enormous fly. “On when you are called.”

Understanding dissipated the last of Morgane’s irritation. Of course, it made sense now. The Ladies were in the midst of discussing something, something which probably had a lot to do with her. Morgane knew that this conclusion could be considered presumptuous, if it weren’t for the fact that the Ladies were very often discussing something to do with her. Morgane knew this, not just because of the Sight (which was actually not very useful for these sorts of things) but because for the last few nights she had walked into a room where the Ladies were sitting and the conversation had stopped suddenly. Privately, Morgane thought this was very childish and she had told Viv as much.

“I think it’s very childish that you stop talking the moment I walk into the room,” she’d said.

“Do you really,” Viv had replied in a way that suggested she did not very much care what Morgane thought.

“What are you talking about?” Morgane persisted.

Here, Viv rolled her eyes and fixed Morgane with a look that implied _she_ were the one being childish. “You, obviously.”

Whereas El was frustrating in her vagueness, Viv was equally so in the blunt way with which she answered questions, whilst at the same time revealing nothing at all. Morgane, however, was not to be deterred. “Well what are you _saying?”_

Instead of answering straight away, Viv had continued stirring the cauldron she was balancing over the stove. Morgane caught a whiff of juniper and sage, herbs she herself was very familiar with as being essential when harnessing the Sight. Once Viv had stirred the contents seven times, she lifted her wand out of the cauldron and flicked it at Morgaine.

“Don’t be a brat,” she’d told her. “And don’t look so keen when asking questions. It’s over-eager and undignified.”

After that, there hadn’t been very much point in asking more. Morgane certainly knew better than to press Nim, who would only look at her with disappointment before gently reprimanding her with a lecture that a priestess of Avalon should wait until the Goddess made her will known, instead of plaguing Her with hasty demands. Morgane would then say something along the lines of it being _Nim_ she was asking, not the Goddess, at which Nim would only look even more pained and Morgane would walk away feeling guilty and wishing she had never said anything in the first place.

So instead Morgane had done what El had said, going out to the orchard under the pretext of spiritual contemplation while inside her mind reeled excitedly with the prospect of what the Ladies had to tell her. It was possible that they merely needed her for something; lately they had taken to scrying into the mirror or prodding the flames and often they would ask for Morgane’s assistance with the Sight. Morgaine rarely had to wait to be called upon in these instances however, rather one of the Ladies would burst in on her looking harried while she was studying and request her help. No, this was something particular they needed her for. Something that promised answers.

Morgane had not quite anticipated how long it would take for these answers to be forthcoming, however. The sun was dipping below the trees and still her mind had not stilled enough to enter even the semblance of a trance. A fallen apple lay a few feet away from her and she’d tried hard to contemplate the intricate patterns and designs webbing its skin but this had only proved to be very boring. Had she really done this for three days straight when she was training to be a novice? And now she couldn’t even keep her mind quiet for three hours.

The snapping of a twig broke her abruptly from her brain’s ramblings like no apple or breathing exercises had yet to manage. At once she was alert, although she didn’t so much as move her foot. Instead she stayed where she was, motionless, watching the trees for the slightest sign of an arrival.

A beat later, one came. “Well,” came a familiar voice. “Fancy seeing you here.”

At the sound of that voice, dry, teasing, pricked with a sardonic mockery that was infuriating in its familiarity, the last of Morgane’s resolve snapped.

 _“You,”_ she said, voice laced with contempt. “What are you doing here?”

The boy stepped forward, sweeping off his hood so that Morgane could see his frown. Morgane observed this only as a secondary awareness to the increased rate of her pulse. The frowning face, as hatefully familiar as the mocking voice that accompanied it, was wrenchingly handsome even in its parody of disapproval. Brown eyes, the colour of the dark honey the beekeepers produced in the hives beyond the orchard shone from an equally dark face, with its tan seeming almost golden in the fading light of the afternoon. Around thin shoulders the hood of his emerald cloak bunched, striking against the dark of his hair which lay straight, curling slightly around his ears and the nape of his neck.

“Is that any way for a priestess to talk,” Lancelet asked, shaking his hair out of his eyes as he approached. “Especially when greeting a cousin?”

Morgane scoffed, hoping the derision hid the way her heart, traitor that it was, had suddenly decided that it hadn’t been working quite fast enough before. Lancelet came and sat opposite her and Morgane saw with a rush of irritation how gracefully his legs bent under him, as if he had never once had to contend with the trials of a rebellious body.

“Aren’t you a little advanced to be doing stuff like this?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I thought high priestesses were supposed to be staring into reflective services, parading up and down England tricking noblemen out of their children, things like that.”

Morgane made an ugly sound Nim would have been disappointed in, although she had probably learned it from Viv. “You don’t know anything.”

Lancelet shrugged, somehow managing to make even that a graceful movement. “Fair enough,” he replied. “For all I know, you could be engaged in some very serious, mystical practice which involves…what? This apple?”

“Oh, I do wish you’d go away,” Morgane snapped as Lancelet picked up the apple, turning it over with long, slender hands. “Why are you even here?”

Lancelet shrugged again. “To see my mother.”

 _“Obviously._ I mean why are you _here,_ instead of anywhere else on the entire island?”

“She’s busy,” Lancelet answered, dropping the apple to look straight at Morgane. “And El said you might be here.”

Morgane cursed inwardly, a rush of resentment towards El coursing through her as Lancelet snickered. “So you just thought you’d come and bother me,” she said. “Instead of waiting for her like a normal person?”

Lancelet nodded. “Yes,” he said simply. “It’s been a long time, cousin. I wanted to see how you were.” He looked her up and down and a shiver ran across Morgane’s skin as for a moment it seemed his eyes grazed her exposed thigh, not quite so dark as his own skin only due to the lack of a tan, but then he said: “You’ve cut your hair.”

Instinctively, Morgaine reached up to finger the short black locks that hung cropped, just below her ear. “Yes,” she said, blushing.

“It’s doesn’t look nearly so pretty.”

The colour in Morgane’s cheeks flared and she felt all of a sudden very hot. “I don’t know what girls you’re used to in Francia,” she replied with dignity. “But funnily enough, my priorities don’t revolve entirely around looking pretty.”

“Evidently,” quipped Lancelet, eyes landing on the grass and mud stains splattering Morgane’s hem, and she resisted the urge to slap him. “But don’t worry, cousin. I’m sure you have qualities enough to attract attention.”

 “Stop calling me that,” Morgane retorted sharply. “We’re not even related.”

Lancelet shrugged a third time. “Might as well be,” he replied. “I’m fairly sure mother likes you more than she likes me.”

“I wonder why,” said Morgane sarcastically.

The moment the words fell she regretted them. Lancelet’s already sharp eyes narrowed into slits and a muscle flitted in his jaw, like the brush of a bird’s wing. Morgane knew she had struck a nerve, had known she had done so before she’d even spoken. Now Lancelet looked at her coldly, his lip curling into a sneer.

“You have changed much,” he commented frostily. “I never thought you of all people would have become one of her lapdogs. I thought you had more personality than that.”

Morgane felt the sting of his words as surely as she was meant to, but kept her face entirely from betraying her when she spoke again. “People are more than what you think of them,” she told him primly. “And there’s a difference between blind obedience and recognising the respect one owes to his own mother.”

“What about when one’s mother is the Lady of the Lake?”

“As your conscience bids you, Galahad.”

“Don’t call me that,” Lancelet snapped and Morgane felt a glimmer of what other people must feel when Nim’s son spoke to them. “That’s not my name anymore.”

Morgane rolled her eyes, irritation flaring up inside her despite her brief moment of fear. “You can’t just reject your heritage,” she criticised. “What else have you renounced? Have you become a Christian too?”

Lancelet looked as though he had been forced to swallow something extremely distasteful. _“Don’t_ be stupid.”

“Well, why not? You’re already part of the way there.”

“Right. As if they’d let me a foot past the Gates of Heaven with _these.”_

He shook his sleeves down, revealing the blue woad tattoos that covered every inch of his arms and, Morgane knew, stretched to his upper back and shoulders as well. The blue shone starkly against his skin, twisting and writhing like the intertwining bodies of a hundred snakes, although it was possible to make out various symbols amongst the knotted patterns. Morgane smirked as her index lightly traced a sigil of Ceridwen, the Goddess’ Crone Aspect, in the groove of his elbow. “I thought the whole point of Christianity was forgiveness,” she said.

“Yeah,” Lancelet agreed, pulling his sleeves back down. “Only forgiveness is a lot easier when you don’t have the evidence of the sin tattooed across your entire _body.”_

“You’re not telling me the supreme power of the holy bathtub couldn’t wash away this heathen nonsense?”

“Ah Morgane, baptism is _symbolic,_ didn’t anyone tell you that?”

“Of course. How could I have forgotten?”

They looked up and met each other grinning and for a moment it seemed that all the previous nastiness of the day had indeed been washed away. For a moment, Morgane felt it was just as it had always been between Lancelet and she; six years old and screaming at each other in languages neither of them could understand, nine and running barefoot from the kitchens, hands sticky with bannock and breathless with laughter, twelve and scraping their legs raw climbing trees in the orchard before pelting each other with fruit. Morgane wasn’t sure how or when the boy had left Avalon and come back this angry, aggressive, savagely beautiful young man with a viper’s tongue which he lashed out on just about anyone within reach, but it was nice to know he was in there still.

It seemed that Lancelet was remembering the same, for he drew his knees to his chest and looked defensively down at them. “It _is_ good to see you cousin,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

Morgaine raised a sardonic eyebrow in order to disguise her pleasure. “Even though I’ve become one of your mother’s lapdogs?”

“Even so. It could have been worse. I was worried that you’d become boring.”

Morgane snared a tuft of grass and tore it from the earth, scattering the blades with her fingertips. “I thought all priestesses were boring.”

“So they are. So are you, when you’re droning on and on about the Goddess.”

Morgane sighed, her moment of nostalgia gone. “Aren’t you capable of being anything other than horrible?”

Lancelet smiled. It was a wicked thing, all sharp points and secret poison. A snake’s smile. If Morgane _had_ been a Christian, she would have crossed herself. “The world was made for horrible people,” he replied. “I wouldn’t expect you to know that, secluded here on your little island. Outside it isn’t all honey cakes and apple trees.”

“Oh really?” prompted Morgane. “Please, do tell me Lancelet what the real world is truly like. For, ignorant as I am, I have wondered so long; am I finally to learn what it is that has taken you from us and turned you into a complete and perfect _arsehole?”_

She had intended the words to hurt, just as Lancelet’s had hurt her. As it was, his smile only broadened.

_“Morgane!”_

Both Morgane and Lancelet’s heads snapped towards the source of the call to see Viv, picking her way through the trees towards them, her wine-dark dress and raven head intimidatingly disruptive against the tranquil green of the orchard. She stopped a few paces away from them, kohl lined eyes moving from Morgane’s face to settle on Lancelet’s.

“Hello poison,” she greeted him. “Or what is it you’re going by these days? Lancet, isn’t it?” 

“Lanc _el_ et,” said Lancelet, through gritted teeth.

“Lancet suits you better,” replied Viv. “Sharp. Deadly. And very, _very_ small.”

Lancelet flushed furiously but said nothing. Smirking to herself, Viv turned to Morgane, snapping her fingers at her. “You’re needed,” she stated bluntly. “Come.”

“I’m busy,” said Morgane, with a glance at the bristling Lancelet. Despite her less than friendly feelings towards him this afternoon, she felt seized with a sudden protectiveness and a resentment towards Viv for provoking him.

“You’re busy when I tell you you’re busy,” Viv answered. “As it happens, poison you’re needed too. There. I bet that’s something you don’t hear too often.”

Lancelet looked as though he were considering saying something particularly savage, however he copied Morgane in getting to his feet and following Viv through the winding trees, back up to the stone path which led towards the cloisters. As they walked Morgane carefully avoided Lancelet’s eye, allowing him to lag behind so that she could catch up with Viv.

“You shouldn’t tease him,” she reprimanded her angrily, conscious of the sounds of Lancelet kicking at the grass and cobbles as he walked. “He doesn’t like it.”

Viv raised an eyebrow, a far more provoking action than Morgane could have managed. “No one likes to be teased,” she said. “That doesn’t mean some people don’t need it. And that boy needs it more than most.”

Morgane glanced over her shoulder at Lancelet. It was only when standing that his height became obvious; a year since their last meeting and he still barely came up to Morgane’s chin. In his defence, the bonuses of a Roman heritage meant Morgane stood taller than a lot of people, especially any of the fairy folk, however, Lancelet it seemed had inherited none of his father’s girth, nor his mother’s queenly stature.

“Even so,” Morgane continued valiantly. “You know he’s sensitive about it.”

Viv made a dismissive gesture. “All men are sensitive about size,” she remarked. “It does them no harm to be brought down a further notch or two.”

Morgane said nothing, but thought privately that Lancelet was particularly sensitive about his size and that she might know why. For anyone who had eyes, it was plain to see that, despite her uncommon tallness, Morgane had fairy blood. It was evident in the darkness of her hair, skin and eyes, as well as in the sharp, angular points of her face and chin. One of the reasons Lancelet and others called them cousins was the similar features they possessed; however, Lancelet’s smallness only enhanced his relation to the Little People men were so afraid of. For Morgane in Avalon this was no bad thing, her relation to the fairy folk only serving to put her on a higher standard amongst the other priestesses whom addressed her with the epithet “Morgan le Fey”, almost as if she were royalty. For Lancelet in the outside world however, she was well aware that it was a different story.

They stopped outside the door to Nim’s room and Viv jerked her head at Lancelet. “You first, poison,” she said.

Lancelet scowled at Viv but, unwilling to disobey a direct command, knocked once before heading inside.

Nim was seated on one of the three couches in the centre of the room and El on another, arranged around a small tri-legged table on which a crystal decanter gleamed. Both of them were holding glasses of wine.

All three Ladies had their own rooms, however it was uncommon to find them there as they usually preferred to gather together here. As a result, Nim’s room served as both the Ladies’ private lounge and the room in which they received guests, as well as her own bedchamber. Far at the back of the room, a veil as thin as gossamer separated Nim’s bed from the penetrating gaze of the outside world. Morgane, well-versed in such small magics, was only too aware of how well the tantalising glimpse of the Lady of the Lake’s bed worked on wealthy rulers and other powerful men.

Both Nim and El appeared to be slightly drunk. There was a harpist playing in the corner, and their heads nodded lazily in time to each pluck of the strings. Viv took the last couch and Morgane her usual place on a small cushioned stool. Sometimes, if either she or the Ladies were in particularly good humour, she might curl up beside one of them on the couch (often Nim) and they would stroke her hair. She thought that with Lancelet here, however, to do so would be rather tactless.

Lancelet stayed standing. His shoulders were stiff and high like a soldier’s, however his eyes were cast down at his feet. Morgane didn’t think she’d seen him look so young since he’d first gotten here. “Hello mother,” he mumbled.

“Galahad,” said Nim warmly, then cursed herself, slapping a hand to her forehead. “Wait, no. Sorry, I’m sorry. What is it again? Lancelay. No. Lancet? Lancette? Lance-a-lot.”

“Lancelet,” chimed El idly from where she lay on the couch, stirring her glass with her finger.

Nim snapped her fingers. “That’s it,” she agreed. “Lancelet. I’m sorry love, I was trying ever so hard before you got here-”

“-It’s alright,” replied Lancelet quickly, a faint pink tinge colouring his cheeks. “You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do,” Nim replied, nodding her head aggressively. “If Lancelet’s what you want to be called then Lancelet is what we shall call you. How ever do you expect other men to remember your name, if your own mother can’t even get it right?”

She drained her glass, setting it on the table with a light _clink_ before flinging out her arms. “Come here,” she said, more of a command than a request.

Lancelet covered the room in a few quick strides, bending down to embrace Nim. Nim clasped him warmly, running a hand through his dark hair. “It’s getting long,” she remarked, touching the curls at the back of his neck. “You ought to get it cut a little.”

“I know,” replied Lancelet, straightening up. “I was thinking I might shave it.”

All three women looked horrified. Morgane took this opportunity while they were all temporarily paralysed to help herself to a glass of wine.

 _“Shave_ it?” El echoed, sounding scandalised. “Like a _monk?”_

 “Have you ever _seen_ a monk?” asked Lancelet impatiently. “No. More like a Frank. Or some Saxons wear it short.”

“And why, pray, do you want to look like a barbarian?” Nim inquired politely.

Again the savage grin. “Well you know,” he said snakily. “If you can’t beat ‘em.”

Morgane choked on her wine as it went down and came up, sputtering. The Ladies all turned to look at her. She mumbled an apology as Viv offered her a discreet pat on the back.

Once the silence had stretched on for too long, Nim broke it with a cough. “Well,” she began, voice heavy with acceptance. “You’re seventeen now, and your own man. I suppose I can’t force you to do anything anymore. If you want to run around looking like a savage or a serf, I suppose you’re perfectly within your rights to.”

Lancelet looked very pleased. Nim glumly poured herself another glass of wine, passing the decanter to Viv and El who followed suit. Somehow, Morgane got missed out. A minute passed in which the women sipped contentedly at their glasses and Morgane played with the embroidery on her cushion; then Lancelet opened his mouth to say something else, however Nim cut across him before he had a chance.

“Sweetheart, I’d _love_ to catch up,” she said firmly. “And we will. I want to hear all about Francia, and the haircuts. But first, we need you both for something.”

She gestured unnecessarily at Lancelet and Morgane who had looked up from her cushion and was now trying to read Nim’s face. As usual, her expression betrayed nothing and she turned to the others instead; Viv was watching Lancelet carefully, a frown playing between her brows and El was looking deep into the dregs of her glass, absently circling the rim with her finger.

Lancelet, who had not inherited his mother’s skill of impassivity, looked unsettled and exceedingly reluctant. His eyes flickered briefly to Morgane who stared back at him without blinking. “Alright,” he said at last, non-too enthusiastically.

Nim’s smile was glittering. “Excellent,” she said, getting to her feet. Morgane was impressed to see that she was still quite steady, although the same could not be said for El who required the support of the couch’s arm rest in order to stand. Nim beckoned and Morgane and Lancelet followed obediently, Viv and El trailing behind.

Nim led them out of the back door and down a flight of spiralling stone steps, their treacherous nature illuminated only by the faint glow of the torches in their brackets. While Morgane and the ladies tread the stairs with agile ease, Morgane felt rather smug to see the ever-graceful Lancelet, teetering anxiously over a particularly perilous looking step.

Once at the bottom, they walked through an ivy-clad archway and re-emerged outside. They were standing in what was less of a glen and more like a grotto; thick, cave-like walls of ivy hemming in from every side so that the trees caught within them were barely visible. Five torches cast an eerie blue flame, lighting the space in a way that was more intimidating than welcoming. Amongst the ivy, tiny balls of light also glowed, dancing upon the leaves like fireflies, conjured no doubt by Taliesin. The last source of light was the moon, shining bright as a coin in the navy spread of night. It fell directly into the centre of the space where, right in the middle, the mirror stood.

Nim, Viv and El took their places around the mirror, gesturing to Morgane. “You first,” said Nim. “Lancelet, would you mind terribly waiting in the shades over there?”

Lancelet shrugged and wondered over to sit on a stone bench, separated from sight by a curtain of willow branches. Morgane looked questioningly at Nim.

“So there’s no _interference,”_ Viv replied for her, and El giggled.

Morgane rolled her eyes and moved forward to prop her hands up around the rim of the bowl. The mirror was an enormous hunk of quartz, at the top of which a crater had been hewn and filled with rain water. The moon was reflected perfectly, floating on the surface of the mirror as if caught by net. Morgane breathed out and felt the thrum of vibrations through her fingertips.

“You just want me to look?” she asked. “Nothing specific?”

Nim nodded. “That’s right.”

Morgane nodded back and took another breath. This time, when she exhaled she saw that her breath blew lightly across the surface of the mirror, creating little ripples that shook the moon. Morgane focused her mind, banishing every intruding thought as she stared into its black depths. As always it was difficult at first, but by concentrating hard she was able to create a mental barrier against distraction, her sole thought the black water before her and the bobbing of the moon’s reflection inside. After a while she could feel herself slipping; instead of redirecting her consciousness back to itself she allowed it to wander, stepping outside her body and outside the grove…

_A little boy sits on the riverbank, no more than four or five. His cheeks are very red, his eyes bright blue beneath a thatch of yellow hair, fair as a Saxon’s. He is playing with two dolls made from string and canvas, making them talk and fight with one another. His little feet dangle in the water and the hem of his tunic drags with mud._

_“Gwydion!”_

_The boy looks up and squeals in delight as arms wrap around him. A girl hauls him onto her lap, turning her face into his hair to kiss him. Her hair is long and black and tickles his face._

_“Naughty brother! Why are your feet in the water…and look…your clothes are all messy! Your mama will be cross!”_

_Instead of looking chastened the boy only giggles as the dark-haired girl continues to coddle him, tickling his stomach and kissing his yellow head._

_The mists darken and turn to smoke. Thick clouds of ash cling to Morgane’s throat, making her eyes water. She blinks and sees fire, licking the roofs of the houses and sending the straw up in hellish flames. Looking around she sees men with torches, riding around on horses like the heralders of the Apocalypse. They set fire to the buildings; the people inside scream or else are dragged outside to face a quicker death._

_A gleam of silver catches the sun, the only warning before judgement crashes into the riders like a wave hitting rock. The day rings with the clash of sword on sword and the smell of blood stifles the smoke._

_The battlefield falls away. The last flames flicker out to be replaced by a flat, green expanse of water. A light breeze ruffles the surface, bending the heads of the reeds on the bank. In the distance, an island rises from the lake. A pale hand stretches above the water, holding a sword aloft._

_Vexilla regis prodeunt silvi, the wind whispers. Vivat rex cervus. Vivat rex cervus._

Morgane came up with a gasp, her eyes fluttering open. Her lungs ached, as though she had spent the past hour underwater and she gulped and spluttered at the air, her knuckles white at the edge of the basin. She was aware vaguely of Nim at her side, rubbing her back and her hair, speaking soothingly as she gasped for breath.

“There now,” said Nim softly, tracing circles in between Morgane’s shoulders. “There we go. Take it easy. Good girl.”

“What did you see?” demanded Viv, never one for patience.

 _‘Vivienne,”_ said El reproachfully. “Give the girl a moment.”

Morgane tried to express her gratitude to El, although it was difficult when it felt as though her very chest was on the verge of collapse. After a minute more of struggling for air, during which Nim stroked her hair and Viv found enough sympathy within herself to fetch Morgane a cup of water, she finally gained enough control of her throat to force out words.

“My brother,” she managed, voice hoarse even after gulping down the water Viv offered her.  “Gwydion. We were sitting by the river…then there was a fight with some raiders, Saxons I think…and then the Lake, and a hand was stretched out of the water. It held a _sword.”_

She looked up, eyes wide, at the Ladies. “Vivat rex cervus,” she repeated, the words falling out of her mouth before she even knew what they meant. “Long live the King Stag.”

Her gaze switched from each woman, all of whom avoided her stare in favour of glancing significantly at each other. “What does it mean?” Morgane demanded. “What does the King Stag have to do with my brother?”

She did not expect a direct answer and was on the verge of asking again when Nim’s blunt reply surprised her into silence. “It means as you saw,” Nim said. “Your brother _is_ the King Stag. This is the year he will put on the horned crown.”

She waved her hand over the mirror. Morgane thought she caught a glimpse of a young boy seated on a throne, then she blinked and the image was gone, the surface of the water quivering as if a breeze had passed over it.

“My brother?” she repeated, stupid with shock. “But how…I thought the king was to be of Avalon-”

“I promise I’ll explain everything later, Morgane,” Nim interrupted her, with more gentleness than usual. “For now, please go and ask Lancelet to come here.”

Morgane bristled, glaring at Nim but with neither the courage nor stamina to argue. Instead she lifted her hands from the mirror’s edge and turned away, headed in the direction of the willow tree, behind the shades of which Lancelet sat with his arms crossed over his chest. He looked up at Morgane as she approached, eyes hard and lip curled.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well you’re wanted,” said Morgane, unwilling to give Lancelet the satisfaction of anything she had seen.

Lancelet made a contemptuous sound through his nose but none the less stood up, parting the willow’s long branches to walk over to where the Ladies stood waiting for him. Morgane took his place on the bench and propped her chin in her hands. Her heart was still beating very quickly and took long, deep breaths in an attempt to slow it. The smell of smoke still lingered in her nostrils, pungent and intrusive against the earthy damp of the grove. She closed her eyes and counted slowly from ten, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

Around her, the night animals were beginning to emerge from the trees and shrubbery. Morgane heard the hoot of an owl, the skittish flitter of some forest creature moving stealthily through the undergrowth. Lancelet was taking a long time, she observed idly. Surely she hadn’t been so long, and he didn’t even have the Sight. What on earth could they possibly want with him?

The minutes dragged on and Morgane was just considering taking herself off to her room when the sound of the willow’s branches parting alerted her to Lancelet’s presence. She opened her mouth to say something cutting or sarcastic when she stopped short upon catching sight of his face.

Lancelet was completely white. His eyes were stretched almost comically wide, the dark pupils blown to eclipse his irises.

Morgane reached out a hand to touch him. “Lancelet?” she asked tentatively. “What’s the matter?”

As her fingers grazed his shoulder, Lancelet flinched. He took a step back, and his gaze dropped to the floor. “Go away,” he muttered, flinging apart the willow branches and marching away from her. “Leave me alone.”

He left the grove without another word, leaving Morgane staring dumbly after him.


	3. Pellinore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little slow but necessary for background, context etc. hope u enjoy and please comment!

By the time Kay and Arthur arrived home the household was a flurry of activity, already busy making preparations for dinner. Following the dirt path that led to the tall wooden fence in which the handsome manor house sat enclosed, Arthur was immediately faced with servants rushing around the courtyard, arms quaking under the weight of baskets carrying bread, apples and vegetables. Looking around, he saw other servants engaged in sweeping the yard free of hay and horse manure while others inside clattered open the window shutters so as to air out the house. One man shoved Arthur out of the way, a deer carcass slung heavily over one groaning shoulder, followed by a line of men heaving over what looked like half the contents of the local river. In the midst of it all stood Arthur’s mother. She was surveying the organised chaos with a gaze like a sparrow-hawk, shouting out instructions or else gesticulating enthusiastically, sleeves rolled up to her elbows as if she were a fishwife.

Two enormous dogs, roughly the size of young bears, were laying in the dust; glumly observing the work around them. At the sight of Arthur they leapt up and bounded over to him, pink tongues lolling in delight. Arthur crouched low to return their joyful greeting, however there was much less warmth in the chilly look his mother gave him. Rather than addressing them as one who hasn’t seen her sons all day, Priscilla took one look at Kay and Arthur and jerked her head in the direction of the stables.

“Get that horse out of my clean courtyard,” she ordered them. “Then I want both of you helping in the stables. God knows how we managed to let it get to such a state. You can smell shit for miles.”

“We’re having guests?” queried Arthur, wrapping the courser’s reins more securely around his wrist.

Priscilla looked at once both ruffled and haughty. “Who says we’re having guests?” she demanded. “Can’t a woman be ashamed of her house looking like a serf’s hovel without some lord or other telling her so?”

“Right you are mother,” Kay nodded boredly.

“A hundred percent,” Arthur agreed. “So who is it?”

Priscilla scowled but conceded defeat as, at that moment, she was forced to move out of the way for a young man carrying an enormous harp. Rolling her eyes at Kay and Arthur’s raised eyebrows, she threw her hands up in the air. _“Fine,”_ she relented. “Sir Pellinore is visiting, alright? He’s on his way to Londinium and decided to stop by for dinner last minute. _Very_ last minute.”

“Sir Pellinore?” said Kay quickly. “That’s the one with the daughter who looks like she fell from the third circle of Heaven, right?”

“God Kay, she’s like, fourteen,” cringed Arthur, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “And there aren’t any circles of Heaven, Jesus, read your Bible.”

Kay was saved the responsibility of reprimanding Arthur by Priscilla, smacking him hard on the arm. “No blasphemy,” she scolded him before turning a reproaching finger on Kay. “And you best knock any thoughts of Elaine from your thick skull when Pellinore gets here. If you even think she’d sink any lower than the High King of England you’ve got another thing coming. Go on, the stables, both of you. And after that you can take yourselves off to a bath. God knows you stink enough of horse as it is.”

“Charming woman, your mother,” Kay muttered as she waved them off impatiently, turning to deal with a servant petitioning her on some other matter.

“I just don’t understand,” replied Arthur. “Why, whenever we have people over, she has to turn into something out of Greek mythology.”

Kay grunted in agreement as they made their way to the stables. Admittedly, Priscilla hadn’t exaggerated; the mess was a fetid confusion of hay, horsehair and faeces, piled in wavering towers around the beasts who neighed pitifully as they were led out of their stalls. Groaning, Kay and Arthur accepted the pitchforks handed them and got to work, sifting through mud-caked straw and excrement with decidedly ill humour.

A couple of hours later when the stable had been cleared, Kay and Arthur dropped their buckets and pitchforks and, muscles groaning, trudged in the direction of their separate chambers where both were relieved to find that a bath was, indeed, waiting for them. Arthur peeled off his clothes and sunk gratefully into the hot water. After scrubbing himself thoroughly of the smell of horse and manure he dressed in the clothes Priscilla had (rather passive aggressively as Arthur thought) laid out for him, a pointed comment that his standard leather riding jerkin wouldn’t quite do for the occasion. By the time Arthur had donned tunic and trousers and was making his way downstairs he found Priscilla standing by the door, welcoming Pellinore’s party into their home.

He paused, one foot hovering over the staircase. The group by the door looked up, blinking at him with polite curiosity and Arthur felt instantly embarrassed. Pellinore was an elderly man, approaching sixty and both his beard and dark hair were striped with grey, which, combined with the coarse silver furs around his shoulders, gave him the look of an ageing badger. Although the mouth below was smiling genially, he peered at Arthur as though he were squinting at him through darkened tunnels, like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking at.

As if to help him with this, Priscilla quickly gestured toward Arthur. “Arthur, my youngest.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Pellinore, his expression not quite clearing. “Yes! I think the last time I saw you, you can’t have been more than eight years old. And look at you now, a proper young man. What are you now, lad? Fifteen?”

“Nearly,” Arthur replied, coming down to clasp Pellinore’s extended hand. “Seventeen.”

Pellinore blinked and he looked for a sudden quite taken aback. “Seventeen,” he said in a hushed voice, shaking his head. “Good Lord. How the time flies.”

“Arthur, would you please show Sir Pellinore into the _solar_ while I locate that feckless brother of yours,” said Priscilla.

Arthur nodded and led the way into the house’s best room, which he was well aware Priscilla had spent the majority of the day organising. As a result, the floor lay strewn with fresh ferns and the servants had already set a fire blazing in the hearth, making the room warm and welcoming, even to Arthur who had not spent the entire day travelling cross country. The dogs sat basking in the glow of the flame, ears twitching in sleepy contentment, although as Arthur entered they immediately began clambering once again for his attention.

Pellinore and his companions were seated in the guest chairs by the hearth while Arthur took his place on a small stool and, once seated, instantly began to tap a subconscious rhythm on his thigh. He stopped once he realised he was doing it, stuffing his hands beneath him in self-annoyance. He was much better with new people than he had used to be; in fact, he was shocked to have heard on several occasions impressed strangers, remarking to his parents on the confidence of their youngest son. He thought now that he was quite good at talking to people, if talking to people meant being polite and remembering whether to address them as “my lord” or “madam” or “good sir”. Still, he could not help the relief that settled over him as Priscilla re-entered, followed by a servant and a grumpy looking Kay.

“Ah, thank you m’dear,” said Pellinore warmly, accepting the cup of hot wine Priscilla poured him from the flask the servant held. “And I must say, your home. Quite splendid. My own wife could hardly have furnished it better.”

Kay and Arthur exchanged glances and looked away quickly, smirking. They had both heard more than enough from Priscilla on the topic of Pellinore’s wife’s furnishings.

To her great credit, Priscilla merely pursed her lips and asked: “How was the journey?”

Pellinore sighed, stretching his legs across the hearth. “Long,” he replied heavily. “And wet. If I possessed only a little less of the vigour of my youth, I daresay I’d scarce have made it. As it is, I’m beginning to feel my age upon me. Had to travel part of the way in the tent once the weather proved too rough for me.”

“And quite right,” answered Priscilla irritably. “A man your age can hardly go leaping across quagmires on horseback. Especially these days, what with Saxons and brigands jumping out of the ground left right and centre.”

Pellinore nodded sadly. “Very true,” he sighed. “I think the best of my horse-riding days lie behind me.”

He took a long draught of wine, smacking his lips noisily before his gaze landed once again on Arthur, who was absently scratching one of the dogs behind the ears. “And as I heard it, you’re becoming quite the horseman yourself, Artos.”

“Erm,” replied Arthur, too well-mannered to correct Pellinore on his name. “I don’t know about that…”

“Both Kay and _Arthur_ are fair riders,” Priscilla interrupted for him. “But only Arthur can tell you the breed and age of a courser just by looking at it, as well as how many miles its travelled and how much longer it’s got to live.”

Pellinore looked impressed while Arthur blushed. “A worthy skill,” he commented. “My Elaine would be pleased to hear that. She’s very fond of horses.”

“You didn’t bring her with you?” asked Kay loudly.

Priscilla sent Kay a dark look. Pellinore however only shook his head ruefully. “No, no,” he said with a smile that was almost apologetic. “Not that she couldn’t manage the journey…would probably have been much better suited for it than I am…but there’d have been very little to entertain her in Londinium. It’s no shopping trip I’m down for, as your good husband is no doubt well aware.”

“Mmm,” responded Priscilla through pursed lips. “No doubt. Speaking of, where the devil is that man?”

She glanced around the room as if expecting Ector to leap out of one of the tapestries. Instead of her husband however, a second later a servant appeared at the door, nodding deferentially toward Priscilla.

“Dinner my lady,” he announced.

“Excellent,” replied Priscilla briskly, jumping up at once and turning to address Pellinore. “If you’d be so kind as to follow me.”

Pellinore stuck out his elbow and Arthur and Kay helped him up, leading him swiftly into the dining hall and to the place Priscilla pointed out for him along the long oak table, a purchase from Normandy of which she was especially proud. A moment after they were all seated, the door behind them flew open and Ector strode in, arms outstretched and smiling jovially. Arthur felt his spirits lift as he watched Ector clasp Pellinore’s hand and shake it warmly, pausing to kiss his wife on the cheek and clap each of his son’s shoulders before sitting down.

Usually a man of few words, Ector had always been one for physical communication. By most first glances he was an unassuming man, of average height and build with a plain, common face, easily lost in a crowd. The change was felt however in his dealings with people. Kay looked a lot like him while Arthur nothing at all, however, he liked to think he had learned some of his sincerity; his genuine if not always easy warmth with everyone he met.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, casting an apologetic look at his wife who was glaring at him as he sat down. “Had some things I had to see to.” He winked at Arthur, mouthing ‘good job’, and Arthur grinned, guessing he had come from the stables. “How are you Pellinore, young man?”

“All the better for seeing you again my friend,” Pellinore replied heartily. “What’s it been, five years?”

“I think it must have been the last time we fought the Franks in Brittany,” Ector replied, scratching his short brown beard thoughtfully. “With Ban’s lot, you remember?”

Pellinore nodded sagely. “Aye,” he said, accepting the bowl of vegetables Priscilla offered him and spearing carrots onto his plate. “And half his force got stuck at Calais. Would have been dead men if Bors hadn’t arrived at the last second. Good God, that must have been our last battle with the Franks, or anyone overseas.”

Ector looked grim. “That’s because these days we’re too busy defending our own hearths,” he said bitterly, slicing off a piece of venison. “To worry about foreign shores. The enemy’s been at home these past few years.”

“Too true,” sighed Pellinore heavily. “A country without a king…it’s like a chicken once its lost its head. We’ve been running around in circles ever since Uther died, and bumping into Saxon swords on the way. And that’s not to mention the Picts and the Scots clamouring at our doorstep.”

Ector shook his head. “The whole of England has descended into anarchy.”

“Angl-archy,” piped up Kay. Arthur threw a pea at him.

Ector finished cutting the venison and plates were passed round, Ector dealing out the best parts of the beast with a fairness that bordered on the pedantic. Once everyone’s plate was filled they sat still, hands clasped expectantly, and Ector suggested that Pellinore say grace, an offer he accepted with enthusiasm. After a rather long winded thanks to the Lord for the food, company and hospitality, the party said their _Amens_ and the blessing was granted to eat. Before the last word had even fallen Kay seized upon his dinner with rather nauseating gusto; Arthur turned to look at Ector so that he wouldn’t have to watch him.

“How was your day?” he asked.

Ector popped a piece of meat in his mouth and chewed slowly, looking pensive. “Difficult,” he said after a long while, and upon his family’s curious faces, elaborated. “There was some trouble over in Bymarsh. Some men were carrying out lynchings of the Little Folk.”

There was a clatter as Priscilla dropped her fork onto the flagstones. Kay and Arthur stared at Ector. _“Why?”_ demanded Arthur, once he had found his voice. “What on earth for?”

Ector shrugged wearily, spreading his palms before him. It was the gesture of a man who has asked that same question to himself, many times over. “Why does anyone do anything?” he replied. “Some quarrel over a dead cow. Most likely a simple matter of tail rot, you know what they’re like over there with their livestock. Anyhow, the villagers blamed the Little Folk; accused them of witchcraft and all sorts of nonsense. They raided their homes overnight, set fire to their winter stores, burnt their huts to the ground. Strung up a few as an example. The bodies were still there when I arrived.”

Silence followed his words, spoken so matter-of-factly that it should have blunted the delivery. It did not. Arthur stared into the venison, curdling darkly on his plate, and found that he had rather lost his appetite.

After what felt like an age, Pellinore spoke again. “I take it,” he began carefully. “That you saw justice done?”

Ector nodded. “It took much longer than it should have done,” he explained. “And half the morning for them just to get their stories straight. All of them swore that the Little Folk had been the first to antagonise, although they couldn’t agree on whether they had done so by magical means or simply by firing on them in the dark. Either way, the truth was clearer than water that it had been an entirely unprovoked attack, motivated by nothing more than the usual superstitious bigotry. There were twelve participants in all, every one of them tried and hung.”

 _“Good,”_ said Priscilla fiercely and Arthur, surprised, glanced up to see tears glittering in his mother’s eyes. “Those murderers. Those vile…evil _savages._ What have the Little People ever done to them? What have they _ever_ done, except plough their own fields and keep to themselves? May the criminals rot in Hell.”

“Why does this keep happening?” asked Kay imploringly. “This has got to be…what? The third attack this month?”

Ector made another helpless gesture. “The country is gripped by fear,” he answered. “What with the Saxons and everything else going on…people are scared to step outside their houses. With terror like that in the air people will always go out of their way to look for a scapegoat, and the Little Folk have always served as one.”

“Cowards,” spat Priscilla. “Cowards and prejudiced fools, the lot of them.”

“You’re quite right my dear,” said Pellinore, patting her hand consolingly. “It’s a terrible, terrible business, especially when people listen to the likes of fanatics like Leodegranz. Did you hear Ector, what he’s doing in Carmelide? He’s having them rounded up and forced into camps, little more than slums really, and burning anyone who shows the slightest affinity to magic or the Old Religion.”

 “Leodegranz,” Ector said the word with disgust. “Is a fear mongerer and a tyrant who spooks at his own shadow. If he’s what they call a pious man it seems the lines between piety and insanity are awfully thinner than I remember.”

“Here, here,” Pellinore nodded agreeably. “Never did have any time for such extremism. I, for one, have always found the Little Folk to be a peaceful people. Never had any trouble with them; simply keep to themselves, as Priscilla says, and just as it should be. I just can’t agree with those self-righteous zealot types, the ones who go on and on about the Devil damning them dark and so forth. Of course, I’d be the last to side with those degenerate reprobates calling themselves ‘progressives’, who would seek to have us mate with them, until we were all one folk and you couldn’t distinguish your fairy from your Roman. For sure they are separate from us, in terms of race and blood etcetera, but certainly no less equal. And so long as they worship their gods quietly and keep to their own lands, why should anyone bother them?”

“Surely all land is their land,” said Arthur quietly. “Seeing as we’re the ones who took it from them in the first place?”

Pellinore looked, for a moment, quite ruffled. He opened his mouth and closed it quickly, a faint pink tinge creeping across his withered cheeks. “Well…yes,” he sputtered eventually. “Yes, I can see how some people might see it like that.”

He cleared his throat awkwardly and for a while the talk petered out as people’s attention turned to eating. Then Kay mentioned the Picts’ movements in Dun Aberr and conversation resumed once again to military matters before finally settling on speculation as to who the next king would be. Arthur found himself taking an active part in the discussion; he had heard enough of the various rulers who fancied themselves contenders to form a personal opinion of each of them, and listened closely to Ector when he spoke.

“Uriens looks strongest,” he stated with conviction. “He has nearly the whole of the West Country on his side, not to mention Wales. He might not be as forceful a character as the others but he’s a safe pair of hands and that’s what the country needs right now.”

“Uriens will never accept the crown,” Pellinore shook his head. “He’s older than I am, for one thing, and he’s never been one to seek power.”

“He’ll accept it if it means stopping Lot,” Kay pointed out. “And half of the others will back him for the same reason.”

“Urgh, that horrible man,” voiced Priscilla, pulling a face over her third glass of wine. “And his Gorgon of a wife. Wouldn’t trust either of them as far as I can throw a shit covered sheep.”

“Lot isn’t as much of a threat as he would have people believe,” answered Pellinore dismissively. “Everyone knows he’s unprincipled and he keeps his ambition no secret. The people will not have a man of such low morality as their king.”

“It seems to me people don’t care very much who their king is, so long as they have food in their bellies and raiders far from their shores,” Arthur pointed out. “Look at Uther. He wasn’t the most popular choice after Ambrosius died, but people forgot about that after he started winning a few battles.”

“Half true, Arthur,” said Ector with a wry smile. “It’s true that Uther, God bless his soul, was certainly no angel and there are many who would have seen a different man appointed. However, you are wrong to suggest that the people’s opinion is of little consequence. Quite the contrary; while a lot of lords detested him, the secret to Uther’s success was his popularity amongst the common folk. For much of his reign he made no distinction between Christians and the followers of the Old Religion, deferring both to his priests and the wisdom of Avalon for counsel, likely because he wasn’t overburdened with too much religion himself. It is only when he stopped treating his subjects equally that support for him began to slide; that and his lack of a male heir of course.”

“Aha!” exclaimed Pellinore suddenly, flinging an accusing finger at Ector with glee. “So you _don’t_ think there’s an heir! You have no excuse not to come with me to Londinium and hack this all out with the other wolves after all!”

“Apologies,” replied Ector smoothly. “I shall rephrase. That…and his _perceived_ lack of a male heir.”

“Oh come on, Ector!” huffed Pellinore impatiently. “You can’t _still_ be barking up that old tree. Listen, you know it as well as I do. Uther _had no children,_ and if he did then certainly they will be the bastard of some silly milkmaid or serving wench, barely fit to lift a sword, let alone the crown! You cannot believe that tale spun by those foolish harpists, that they have the heir trussed up an apple tree in Avalon somewhere!”

“I believe God will make his will known,” said Ector simply, and that was all he would say on the subject.

Briefly, Arthur was reminded of the encounter Kay and he had had with the mad old beggar in the woods, the man who had heralded him as Uther’s lost son, and was about to relay the story to Ector when the arrival of dessert knocked all thought of the event from his mind. When the last plates had been cleared away the party retired to the _solar_ for more wine and, for Ector and Pellinore, a chance to reminisce. Apparently, in his day Pellinore had been quite the champion jouster, and he regaled them with detailed accounts of his most memorable contests before abruptly addressing Kay and Arthur.

“And how about you boys?” he asked. “I trust I’ll be seeing you both at Canterbury, for the Christmas tournament?”

“Unfortunately, after half the winnings last year went to Lot’s whole family, the rules have been restricted to one jouster per household,” Ector replied apologetically. “So this year it’ll just be Kay.”

Pellinore looked positively crestfallen on Arthur’s behalf. “Oh _no,_ son!” he lamented, voice heavy with regret. “What a great shame for you!”

“It’s alright,” said Arthur quickly. “I’m more of a spectator anyway.”

“Arthur’s never really been much of a jouster, have you son?” said Ector, patting Arthur affectionately on the arm. “But he’ll be down anyway, for moral support. Keep his brother in line, head up, that sort of thing.”

He clapped Arthur on the shoulder again and Arthur forced a smile. The topic was dropped in favour of glorious retellings of battles against the Scots however, he became aware that Priscilla was looking at him rather oddly, although she soon dropped her gaze to her embroidery. Arthur listened to the stories of Ector’s youth and Pellinore’s middle age with half an ear, feeling suddenly rather drained. He wondered at what time it was considered polite for him to excuse himself and return to his bedroom, where it was quiet and there were books and blessedly devoid of people asking him whether he didn’t already have a sweetheart.

Thankfully, after a while it seemed Pellinore had exhausted both his tales of battlefield exploits and his stamina. After thanking Ector and Priscilla once again for dinner and wishing them all a goodnight he was led by a servant to the guestroom, leaving the family alone for the first time that evening. Ector watched him retreat with a fond smile and when he was gone addressed his sons.

“So,” he said. “What do you think?”

Kay shrugged indifferently from where he sat, picking his teeth in the corner. “Seems alright.”

“I’m not sure I agreed with everything he said about the Little People,” said Arthur, thinking back to their rather contentious conversation at dinner.

Ector sighed, pinching the skin of his brows between his thumb and forefinger. “No,” he admitted eventually. “Nor I. But he is an old man and his heart is in the right place. Some allowances must be made for the elderly.”

Kay snorted loudly and Arthur looked unconvinced. Ector observed both reactions and elaborated. “Pellinore belongs to a different time, when much of Britain was still under Roman rule. You don’t know how those people were treated back then. Some of the men in charge make Leodegranz seem positively moderate. To consider the Little People the equals of Britons and Romans, while maintaining that our bloods should remain unmixed, would have been positively radical in those days. At least he is not burning people.”

“I am not sure,” said Arthur carefully. “That we should be measuring people’s merit based on the number of people they have not had burned.”

Ector smiled in a way that managed to be amused, fond and a little sad all at the same time.

“Well I am not sure we should be measuring our guest’s merit with the man sitting directly upstairs,” chimed in Priscilla. “In fact, I think it’s about time we should all be getting to bed.”

“You are quite right my dear,” replied Ector, stretching his arms behind his head as Kay yawned. “As always.”

“Arthur, I need your help with the dogs a moment,” said Priscilla.

Arthur got to his feet and, stifling his own yawn, said goodnight to his father and brother before following Priscilla. Rather than leading him outside however, Priscilla stopped in the hallway and, after making sure that no one was around to hear, began to talk in a low, hurried voice.

“Look here Arthur,” she rushed. “I wanted to say that it really is a great fault, you not being able to partake in that tournament. No, no,” she raised a hand when Arthur showed signs of interrupting. “We both know the only reason you’ve ‘never been much of a jouster’ is because it’s Kay’s thing and you’ve always backed away from it. Perhaps he and your father think it of little matter to you but I know it’s a disappointment and…well, I just wanted to say I’m really very proud of how you’ve handled it. Anyway, I think you deserve this,” she withdrew a small, leather-bound codex from the deep pockets of her skirt which she handed to Arthur. “As a well done for being such a good sport.”

Arthur took the manuscript and flipped through, finding it to be a Latin translation of Herodotus’ _The Histories_. “Where did you get this?” he asked his mother, voice hushed with awestruck wonder.

“I wrote to Isolde mentioning you had a fondness for the Greeks,” Priscilla explained with a smile. “She sent this back to me. Apparently her own sons no longer have any use for it. Perhaps now you can stop re-reading that dusty copy of Xenophon you keep under your pillow.”

“Nothing will ever keep me from reading Xenophon,” replied Arthur, his fingers grazing reverentially over the yellow pages. “He and I are lovers. Mother...this is incredible. Thank you.”

In response, Priscilla patted him affectionately on the cheek. “I know sometimes it’s hard being the youngest,” she told him sincerely. “Particularly when, at times, custom calls that we favour Kay. But your father and I love you very much. Never forget that.”

Priscilla patted him once more before planting a kiss on his cheek and shooing him away. “Bed,” she said commandingly. “Don’t stay up too late reading.”

Arthur promised her he wouldn’t and, once she had turned to oversee the clearing up of the dinner, climbed up the stairs to his bedroom. A few doors down in the guest room he could hear Pellinore snoring peacefully, blissfully unthinking of the many miles he had to go before he got to Londinium. Arthur heard the way his breathing hitched and wheezed and he thought of the man’s waning bones; his thin chest and gnarled knuckles under a relentless onslaught of wind and rain, and he pitied him. _Allowances must be made for the elderly_ his father had said. Strangely, it was much easier to sympathise with this image in mind than it was to know and understand that there would come a day when he, Arthur, would also be old.

His room was quiet and as calm as he had longed for. Arthur washed his face, peering into the square, copper mirror leaning perilously against his prized biography of Alexander the Great, and an unfinished Cicero translation he had yet to give his tutor. Beneath an unruly thatch of blond hair, blue eyes squinted back from a face his mother, in her doting moments, described as ‘cherubic’ and Kay ‘nauseating’. Regardless of interpretation, the face that looked back at Arthur was undoubtedly boyish, even naïve, and despite Arthur’s efforts to appear manly and mature, it seemed would always remain that way.

He undressed quickly and climbed into bed, lighting the candle on his bedside table so that the warm orange glow fell onto the worn pages of Herodotus’ manuscript, illuminating the spidery letters so that they appeared alive and dancing before his eyes. He read until his fingers slipped from the fringes of the parchment, and fell asleep to the sound of ancient hooves thundering across a desert plain.  


	4. Lancelet

Morgane did not see Lancelet for the rest of the evening. He wasn’t present at dinner; Morgane had kept an anxious eye out for him, her gaze swooping over the heads of the other girls as they sat, cross legged on the floor of the white stoned room they used as a dining area, the usual evening plate of fish and green pulses on her lap. Glancing towards the high table, exclusive to the Ladies and Druid counsellors, she saw that the seat between Viv and Taliesin was also absent. Presumably Nim had gone to console her son…but for what? Despairing of the answer, Morgane spent the entire meal in churlish frustration, barely participating in the conversation with her fellow priestesses and lapsing instead into surly, contemplative silence.

After dinner and the obligatory organising of the leftovers, which would be given to the poor the following morning, Morgane joined her friends in the _solar_ where they often spent their free time, reading or telling each other’s’ fortunes or playing chess. It soon transpired however that Morgane was in no mood to socialise; she relented to playing a couple of games but upon losing two spectacularly she promptly gave up and, with a parting wave, climbed the stairs irritably to the dormitories.

The priestesses slept in dorms of three beds between six girls. Morgane shared a bed with her friend Rhiannon, a high priestess of the same rank whom she had known since she had first come to Avalon at the age of seven. Now however the dormitory was empty, the beds standing cold and bare as slabs of white marble, glinting in the moonlight from the little arched window like coverings over tomb stones. Morgane took off her priestess’ garb; the plain, white, short-sleeved under dress and dark blue woollen tunic, folding them gently and placing them in the chest at the end of the bed with her other few possessions.

Avalon girls didn’t have much of their own; most came when they were very young and had no knowledge or desire of fine things, which were impractical anyway and an unnecessary distraction in a life of education and spiritual devotion. There was also the foundation of equality, the principle that all girls were sisters in the eyes of the Goddess, which was a difficult moral to uphold if some girls were pulling out necklaces of coral beads next to the daughters of farmers. However, there was little getting away from the fact that a lot of the priestesses were the daughters of very wealthy families who had bequeathed them with tokens to remember them by before sending them off for schooling in the mists.

Morgane was one such daughter. While she had very little memory of her world before Avalon, (she had been here for over half her life now and sometimes found it hard to believe that she had ever known anything other) the recollections she did have were largely brought on by the items that now sat at the bottom of her wooden chest, suffocated beneath thick layers of perfectly folded clothing. These items included:

  * One silver hand-mirror, Roman, given to her by her father Gorlois.
  * A string of amber beads, a leaving present from her step-mother Igraine, never worn.
  * One moonstone pendant, nearly the size of her fist. This was actually a gift from Viv, who had given it to her in an attempt to soften the blow of leaving Tintagel.
  * One roughly carved toy horse, wooden and painted with berry juice which had long ago begun to fade. Morgane had a memory of a child’s fat, pink hand, wet with tears, pressing it into her open palm but she couldn’t remember whether she had carved it or not.



Apart from this small cluster of objects, the only things Morgane could really call her own were her clothes (2x priestess garb, one work apron, one formal robe, one nightshift, one plain wool dress, 2x cloaks: one plain, one travelling) and the little silver sickle knife that every priestess wore on her hip beside a pouch used for storing herbs, runestones, etcetera. Even the books she had thumbed through until the pages were worn and yellow were items of communal ownership, perched on a shelf at the far end of the room.

Some people might despair of such a Spartan existence, complaining that the lack of private ownership somehow stripped a person of their individuality. Morgane had never understood that argument. In Avalon, the Ladies taught that a person’s individuality existed in themselves and themselves only. To believe that your personality could somehow reside in an entity separate from yourself was dependent nonsense. In Morgane’s opinion, it was such hopeless reliance on jewels and finery that plunged the world into corruption, widening the gap between those who had everything and those held underwater by poverty.

Morgane pulled on her night shift, shivering slightly as the cold pricked her skin through the thin material. There was no fire in the dormitory and most nights the girls kept themselves warm by heating a bed pan or by simply clutching tightly to each other. Morgane couldn’t count the number of times she had been woken in the middle of a freezing winter night by the sound of Rhiannon’s teeth chattering in her ear. If Rhiannon were here now she would comb and braid Morgane’s hair as was their normal practice; instead Morgane took the comb from beside the wash basin and yanked it through the straight black locks, an easier feat since she had cut it to her shoulders regardless of what Lancelet said about its prettiness.

At the thought of Lancelet, a jab of pain struck her somewhere below the ribs and she put the comb down. Instantly she was annoyed with herself, at her inability to perform even a simple self-serving task because she was distracted by thoughts of him. She detested Lancelet’s visits, not just because he was a horrible, viperous toad (although that was certainly part of it) but for the way he made her feel about herself. Stupid and silly, like any number of adolescent princesses and not the educated, mature student, trained in the old wisdom, that she was. More than that, it was only when Lancelet was here that Morgane ever came close to regretting the life she had chosen. Above anything, it was Lancelet’s unique ability to make Morgane second-guess herself that caused her the most irritation.

Still, she thought, braiding her hair into short plaits with quick fingers, something had happened to Lancelet in the grove. Something that had clearly affected him, to the extent that a Lady of the Lake had missed dinner to comfort him. Such a thing was unprecedented; even in Morgane’s darkest moods, when she had skipped meals for days at a time Nim had never risked showing prejudice by making herself absent. Afterwards yes, but never in front of the other girls. True Lancelet was her born son, but what did that matter in Avalon? Here, Nim was mother to all, by right of being a representative of the Goddess.

Such blatant flouting of convention could only mean one thing: whatever Lancelet had seen in the mirror had disturbed him, to such an extent that could ruffle Nim’s unflappable calm. Morgane felt a tremor of unease upon this realisation. Lancelet was a turgid little shit yes, however, Morgane had known him for nearly her whole life. There was no one else here he could turn to apart from his mother, with whom he had complicated relations anyway and who didn’t really understand him, just as he wilfully misunderstood her. The one thought Morgane liked less than the idea of Lancelet’s being here was the idea of Lancelet’s being here alone.

With this unhappy revelation in mind, Morgane made a decision. Upon reaching the door she hesitated, thinking about how it would look if someone caught her heading towards Lancelet’s room in nothing but her shift. _Oh whatever,_ she thought, impatient with herself once again. _Let them think what they like._ However, she went back to her chest and pulled out her plain wool cloak, if nothing else to cover her chest a little before leaving the dormitory and heading down the stairs.

Lancelet was staying in one of the guest rooms at the opposite end of the cloisters. Morgane drew the hood of her cloak over her head, taking care to avoid being seen by wandering priestesses on their way to bed. As much as she couldn’t care less what people thought of her, the tongues of gossips had been wagging for years when it came to her and Lancelet and she would rather not add fuel to the flame, for the sake of her own pride. The thought of having to rely on Lancelet for anything, even if it was just a case of discouraging rumour, was enough to make her blood boil.  Luckily she made it to his room without incident and, after making sure the hallway really was deserted, knocked abruptly on the door with her knuckle.

“Lancelet,” she called in a harsh whisper. “It’s me. Morgane. I just wanted to check you were alright.”

She paused, allowing for Lancelet to reply or for the door to open. Neither came. Not to be disheartened, Morgane tried again.

“I wanted to say,” she began, her voice sounding hoarse and uncomfortable as she struggled to find the words. “If you want to talk about it…or anything at all really…I’m here. If you want to.”

Silence again. Morgane wasn’t really sure what else she’d expected. If Lancelet was incapable of being amiable then opening up about his feelings came even less naturally, and that was saying something. Sighing she tried one last time, knocking on his door a little more urgently, and when this was also ignored made to head back to her dormitory.

“Well now, this is not the sort of behaviour I’d expect from a high priestess, I have to say.”

Morgane spun around, her heart leaping into her throat at the sight of Nim, standing behind her with her hands on her hips. Morgane cursed internally. All priestesses were trained to be light on their feet, to be as quiet and soft footed as a gentle breeze. Even so, the skill at which the Ladies could be invisible one moment and here the rest was just plain creepy. Nim was staring down at Morgane, one eyebrow raised in a way that was obviously supposed to make her feel embarrassed, although Morgane rather thought Nim ought to be more ashamed for creeping up on unsuspecting victims like a common assassin.

“This is the part where you reassure me this isn’t what it looks like,” Nim explained to Morgane.

“It _looks like_ I came to check whether Lancelet was okay after an evidently traumatic ordeal,” Morgane replied defensively. “Which is true.”

Nim beckoned Morgane to follow her down the hallway. Once a safe distance from Lancelet’s door and other such prying ears, Nim looked back from over her shoulder and fixed Morgane with a mock-serious stare.

“Now Morgane,” she said gravely. “What’s it going to look like when the ward of the Ladies goes around hovering at boy’s doors like a common camp follower?”

“Oh, don’t be revolting,” Morgane replied with contempt. “You know very well I had reason to check he was alright, otherwise why would you be here yourself?”

Nim nodded. “Point taken,” she said. “Although actually, I came here because I was looking for you.”

Taken aback, Morgane frowned. “Me?”

“Yes. I had a feeling you would be here. No, not the Sight,” Nim shook her head, waving dismissively. “Just that I know you, and if there’s ever someone who needs a friend, you’d be the first at their side. You’re a nice girl, Morgane.”

Morgane took great offence. “No, I’m not.”

Nim made an assenting gesture. “Well no, you’re not,” she admitted. “But you are very kind.”

Nim sighed, running both hands through her blonde-brown hair so that the dark roots showed through her fingers. She looked suddenly very tired, her shoulders slumped as though she carried the entire weight of the world upon them. Morgane felt a stab of guilt and almost asked if there was anything she could do to lighten the figurative load, however she checked herself against giving in to Nim before she had the answers she wanted. She had a feeling that these were soon to be forthcoming, a suspicion confirmed when Nim exhaled heavily.

“Poor Lancelay,” she stated, voice burdened with regret. “I always ask far too much of him.”

“Lance _let,”_ Morgane corrected her. “And what do you mean? What did you ask him?”

Nim pulled a face. “Mor _gaaane,”_ she whined. “It’s trampy to betray another’s secret destiny in the middle of a _corridor.”_

Morgane rolled her eyes. “Let’s go to your room, then.”

Nim continued to look pained for a few more moments until Morgane began to click her tongue impatiently. At last, having apparently made a decision, she beckoned Morgane once again with the crook of her finger and set off in the direction of her chambers. Positively delighted with herself and scarcely believing her luck, Morgane hurried to follow the Lady’s long quick steps, green skirts fluttering behind her like leaves in the orchard, although her feet made not a sound on the flagstones. When they finally reached Nim’s room Morgane struggled to suppress her excitement, closing the door firmly behind her while Nim bustled about lighting candles.

Nim’s bedchambers always looked very different at night. During the daytime the room, like the rest of the architecture on Avalon, was whitewashed and light; large arched windows letting in streams of warm, gentle sun. In the dark however the room took on a different tone to the sunny, welcoming atmosphere Nim so carefully cultivated. The uncovered windows looked directly on to the woods at the edge of the orchard, woods that even Morgane was wary of entering too deeply without a companion. What was more the moon didn’t quite reach here and so Nim had to make do with candles, plunging the room into a mysterious, enigmatic sort of half-light.

When she was done she sat down on the coach, her bare knees curled beneath her like a cat. Morgane took the adjacent couch, relishing the rare pleasure of not having to sit on the stool, and looked at Nim expectantly. Her eyes were half closed, the lids heavy and she was breathing deeply, a strand of blonde hair fluttering against her cheek with every exhale. She looked as if she were about to go to sleep.

“Tell me about Lancelet then,” said Morgane when Nim showed no sign of offering any information forthright.

Nim answered with a withering glance. “I am _not_ going to do that,” she said, an edge of chastisement in her voice. “You know very well that whatever Lancit saw in the mirror is his business. To betray another’s destiny without his consent is the height of dishonour. No, if Lance wants to tell you then he will do so in his own time when he is good and ready.”

Morgane scowled, crossing her arms aggressively across her chest. “Do _you_ know what he saw?”

Nim rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

“Is it something to do with me?”

“Funnily enough,” replied Nim, raising her eyebrows challengingly. “Not _everything_ in this breathing world rotates solely around you.”

Morgane’s scowl deepened. It was difficult for her to conceal her disappointment, although she knew pressing Nim further on this would get her absolutely nowhere. Still, she felt somewhat cheated. Why else had Nim brought her to her room if not to answer some of the questions that she’d had burning in her brain ever since Lancelet had stormed out of the grove? She was about to ask this when she was cut off by Nim, waving her hand in front of her as if she were batting away a moth. “Besides,” she said. “I’d have thought you’d be much more interested to know about what _you_ saw.”

At once Morgane’s ears pricked up, instantly on alert. Nim was watching her carefully, eyes trained for her reaction. Morgane opened her mouth and closed it again, unsure whether a request was required from her and of how to formulate it.

“I…” she began, and then tried again. “I didn’t think I was supposed to know…I just thought it was one of the Mysteries or something-”

“I promised to explain everything, didn’t I?” Nim pointed out.

This was true, however Morgane thought it better not to mention that there had been several instances where Nim had promised to “explain everything later” to get Morgane off her case before conveniently forgetting she had ever done so. This would lead to Morgane interrogating Viv, who would say something cutting, sarcastic or extremely unhelpful, and as a last resort El, who would get distracted by a butterfly or an oddly shaped leaf and instantly become fit for nothing. Now however Nim did not look as though she were considering how best to evade a conversation, a look Morgane was very familiar with. She looked as if she was prepared for difficulty.

“You said Gwydion was the King Stag,” Morgane began because it seemed like a good place to start. “How can that be?”

“The circumstances of your brother’s birth were no accident, Morgane,” Nim told her, stretching her long legs out across the couch. “Rather they were the result of hard-work, a lot of conniving and meticulous planning. For almost twenty years now we have been doing everything in our power to ensure that your brother will be the next king of England.”

“Why though?” asked Morgane, well aware what the intended plans for her brother had been for her step-parents, who had after all been High King and Queen themselves. “I thought it was Avalon who took down Uther?”

“We also put him there in the first place,” Nim reminded her. “We needed a High King who would defer to the Old Religion, and protect the interests of those who still follow our ways. He served his purpose well, for a time. But when he became more interested in appeasing those blood-bathing cannibals Christians call priests than defending his people, it was time for him to go.”

“But now you want to put his son on the throne?” Morgane frowned.

Nim nodded. “The prophecy spoke of a king who would unite the worlds of Avalon and Christ,” she told her. “A king who would beat back the Saxons and rule an England joined in harmony under the cauldron and the cross. Uther was not that king, rather he paved the way for him much like that prophet John Baptist in the Christian stories. No, that king is his son. Your step-brother. It is he who will be the King Stag, he who will put on the crown of the High King and the Horned Crown of Avalon. His life will be tied to that of this land, his future will be the future of England.”

Nim paused, allowing time for this to sink in. Morgane was silent, her brain a tumultuous whir. The last time she had seen Gwydion he had been a five-year-old baby; all pink and white and sticky-fingered, a fat thumb in his mouth as equally fat tears rolled down his scrunched red face when Morgane hugged him goodbye. It was difficult to think of him now as the High King of England, and future saviour of Avalon. “But I thought,” she began slowly. “That the King Stag had to be of the old blood?”

Nim nodded. “Which is why we gave Igraine to Uther,” she explained. “She has enough fairy blood to tie her to Avalon…although you wouldn’t tell to look at her. Then again, you probably couldn’t tell to look at me either. Goddess knows where Lance gets it from; it’s true what they say, that the old blood runs thicker in some than others.”

She was talking to mask the unspoken statement hanging like a pungent smell in the air between them: _Which is why your father had to die._ She wasn’t bringing it up because she wouldn’t apologise for it, and Morgane didn’t expect her to. There was no way she could ever bring Nim to express regret for something conducted in the name of Avalon. Being the Lady of the Lake was a political job as much as it was spiritual, and the very title meant committing yourself to having to do ruthless things for the sake of the Goddess and all those who followed her. Gorlois was a piece who had to be sacrificed in a much larger game and Morgane, who had very few memories of the man, couldn’t bring herself to feel too hearty about it. Even so, another thought had just occurred to her.

“But the King Stag,” she started and she heard her voice tremble. “The point of the King Stag is…sacrifice.”

She looked at Nim, wordlessly pleading with her to refute what she already knew to be true. Instead, Nim’s reply was blunt. “A king’s life is tied to the life of the land,” she repeated. “The point of all kings is sacrifice.”

Morgane found that her eyelashes were damp and shining. She struggled to keep composure and her voice steady when she spoke again. “Does my little brother have to die?”

Nim held her gaze. “It is something he will have to be prepared for,” she said.

Morgane blinked and the single tear that had been clinging to the precipice of her eyelash rolled down her cheek. Nim sighed heavily, getting up from her couch to sit beside Morgane. As soon as she put an arm around her Morgane could no longer hold back; the tears came falling thick and swiftly, too quick for her hands which darted immediately to wipe at her eyes and cheeks, flushed from shame. Nim did not seem to mind however, pulling Morgane closer to her so that soon Morgane was clutching her torso, her head resting on her thin shoulders as Nim stroked and shushed into her hair.

“Morgie, my little Morgane,” she sang quietly the nickname she seldom used. “There there, my girl. Shh, it will be alright.”

“But why?” Morgane demanded, her voice coming out hoarse and choked. “Why does it have to be him…he didn’t do anything except be a sweet little baby who trusted me…he trusted me and I abandoned him when I _promised_ I’d look after him…promised that I’d always be there to look after him…now he’s going to die and I haven’t even been there like I told him I would-”

“Hush,” Nim said softly. “Hush my girl, it isn’t your fault. This is all part of something much bigger than you, there’s nothing you could have done, nothing that any of us can do but accept the roles fate has allotted for us. And that’s something you can do now, you can look after him as you always meant to. It’s your task to help him to understand and realise his destiny, to set him on the right path. To be the big sister the Goddess intended you to be.”

As Nim stroked her hair and whispered to her until her crying subsided, Morgane became dimly aware of how well the Ladies had planned this out. Morgane had often wondered why she had been singled out at the age of seven, taken away from her home in Cornwall to live the life of a priestess. What did Avalon want with the old Duke of Cornwall’s bastard daughter? Lancelet wasn’t wrong, the Goddess was in the habit of snapping up the unwanted children of noble houses. But why then, as much as the Ladies strove for the illusion that Morgane was to be treated no differently from the other priestesses, was it so obvious that she had been set apart? She had had her suspicions (or perhaps her hopes) but now it seemed that hadn’t been the reason at all.

As if she had been reading her mind, Nim spoke again. “How often do you think of your mother, Morgane?”

Morgane hesitated before replying, smearing the last of her tears away with the back of her hand. “Not often,” she replied truthfully. “Why?”

Nim shrugged. “I just wondered if you ever missed her.”

There hadn’t been very much opportunity for Morgane to miss her mother and Nim knew this. From what she had been told by the women at Tintagel, Morgane’s mother had been a fairy woman who had seduced Gorlois one Beltane and died giving birth to her. Apparently, the Duke had come downstairs one morning and found a huddle of Little People holding a black-haired baby which they promptly thrust into Gorlois’ arms with no more than five words of explanation. Gorlois had married Igraine not long after and she had grown up knowing her as the only mother she’d ever had…until Avalon. So when Nim asked if she ever missed her mother, Morgane knew this was code for whether she had ever felt the lack.

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “And…well…I guess, for a while, I sort of thought that she might have been…one of you.”

She mumbled this last bit, avoiding Nim’s gaze which had suddenly become very intense. She could feel herself growing warm. She had not been in Avalon long when the story of the anonymous fairy woman her father had known for a single night had ceased to satisfy her. From the first moment the Ladies had arrived at Tintagel, when Nim had sat across from her and looked into her eyes and said softly: “I knew your mother” she’d had her doubts, her secret longing. Now however Nim was looking at her with an expression that was a mix of love and pity and Morgane just couldn’t bear to look at it.

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” she said, and the profound sincerity in her voice just made everything so much worse.

Morgane shrugged. “Doesn’t matter,” she muttered. “Anyway, I’ve got three mothers. How many people can boast of that? Especially when a lot of people only have the Goddess.”

“Very true,” Nim nodded. “She’s really all we need anyway. Apart from ourselves.”

She patted Morgane who detached herself from Nim, getting to her feet. She was aware now of being quite tired, the events and revelations of the day having finally caught up with her. She still however had a few more questions which she mulled over in her mind, thinking about how to phrase them.

“So, it’s my job to make sure Gwydion fulfils his destiny,” she clarified, thinking about the image she had seen in the mirror. “Here meaning: the political agenda in as much as it benefits Avalon?”

Nim snapped her fingers at her. Morgane nodded. “Right,” she said. “And pursuing this political agenda wouldn’t be made any easier by placing me in the running for a certain office, would it?”

Nim’s eyes narrowed at Morgane’s barely suppressed grin. “Don’t act like this is news to you,” she said.

“I just want to hear you say it.”

“Yes, Morgane,” Nim threw up her hands in submission. “We’re grooming you to be the next Lady of the Lake. Happy now?”

“Very,” answered Morgane, grin widening. “Okay, one more thing. The King Stag doesn’t _have_ to die, does he? Like, there’s nowhere in the prophecy that says if Gwydion becomes king then he’s definitely, one hundred percent going to bite it?”

“I’ve told you all of the prophecy that you’re ready to hear,” Nim answered evasively, picking at a loose string on the fringe of the couch.

“Does that mean you don’t know?”

“It means if I do know, I’m not going to tell you.”

Morgane huffed in irritation. Smirking, Nim waved her away. “Bed,” she said. “And be sure that you don’t make any more detours on your way there.”

Morgane stuck her tongue out in response before exiting Nim’s room, closing the door rather aggressively behind her. By the time she got back to the dormitory the other girls had returned and the beds no longer stood empty. Morgane listened to the rise and fall of their breathing, the soft hum of peaceful sleep as she shook off her cloak and crawled in beside Rhiannon, whose arms shot out at once to circle round her torso like some sort of clingy sea creature. Arranging the covers so as not to wake her friend, Morgane envied the sleepers their quiet thoughts, their untroubled minds that rose like islands out of calm waters. As she closed her eyes and prepared to enter the plane of dream, she wondered whether anything in her world could ever be calm again.

*

The next day Morgane rose early with her fellow priestesses and made her way, bleary eyed and yawning to breakfast. Looking up from the usual morning meal of fruit, bread and honey she couldn’t see Lancelet again, although Nim had resumed her usual place at the high table. Unfortunately, she was dissuaded from looking further on account of catching Viv’s eye, who mouthed _Bad luck_ at her so that she lowered her gaze to her plate, blushing furiously.

Once breakfast was over lessons began and Morgane was forced to sit through an hour and a half of Boethian philosophy while her thoughts remained stuck on the conversation she’d had with Nim last night. It had occurred to her, while contemplating her father’s sorry fate, that she herself was being used as a pawn in the Ladies’ grand schemes. Nim was fond of throwing around phrases like “the paths of fortune” and “fate’s allotments” but it didn’t change the fact that the real destiny was whatever the Ladies’ set in motion. Morgane knew that she ought to feel more indignant about this, about being just another spool of thread in whatever grand tapestry they were weaving. The problem was, she had been brought up with the belief that her first allegiance was to Avalon. Whatever the Goddess willed was what she was expected to do, her own opinions on the matter being nothing in comparison to the bigger picture. And at the end of the day, if the bigger picture involved seeing her little brother again, Morgane would accept her destiny only too willingly.

After Boethius was herb lore and alchemy, a much more enjoyable study in that it allowed Morgane’s mind to wander, and she spent the rest of the morning in deep reflection while perfecting her recipe for the Draught of Tranquillity (which translated, much like the draughts for anxiety and pain relief, into meaning “adding more poppy”.) Morgane, a practical person who enjoyed working with her hands, took much more pleasure in these lessons than in the drudgery of Latin, History and Philosophy. By the end of the session she was in a very good mood, basking in the glow of praise the elderly mage had bestowed upon her sample, and was just packing away humming to herself when Lancelet came in.

“Hello,” he greeted her, casting a curious eye over the workbench where most of her things were scattered. “What are you doing?”

“Alchemy,” Morgane replied, pleased to know something that Lancelet didn’t. “See?”

She picked up her bottle of the draught, gleaming with cyan liquid. Lancelet turned it over in his long, thin fingers with offhand interest. “Draught of Tranquillity,” he read from where she had labelled it. “Very nice. So this is one of your famous potions I’ve been hearing so much about?”

It took nearly every ounce of physical control Morgaine had not to flush beetroot with pleasure. Instead she plucked the bottle from Lancelet’s hands and set it safely on the shelf behind him. “I really can’t think where you get your information.”

Lancelet smiled secretively. “Here and there,” he said evasively. “You’re quite a big name around here, you know.”

Morgane wasn’t sure how to respond to that with modesty so she said nothing at all. She finished tidying her workbench, all the while glancing at Lancelet from beneath her eyelashes. He looked tired; his lids were heavy and there were bruise-coloured shadows beneath his dark eyes. Clearly she was not the only one who had had a difficult night’s sleep.

“Are you done for the morning?” he asked her.

Morgane nodded. “I’m free until lunchtime.”

“Fancy going for a ride?”

Startled, Morgane looked at Lancelet. There was nothing particularly unnatural in his expression which was clear and open, and he gazed back at Morgane with unguarded eyes. Nor was it an especially outlandish request; in their early days she and Lancelet had spent much of their time riding across the island, racing against each other and testing the limits of their horsemanship with increasingly dangerous ventures. Of course, that had been before he had left for Francia, back when he was a semi-passable person.

“Alright,” she said eventually, undoing her work apron. “Why not? Let me just change out of this.”

Lancelet nodded and Morgane rushed upstairs to change out of her priestess clothing into her one dress. She didn’t own any riding breeches and usually had to borrow from one of the other girls whenever she went on any journeys off the island, however this would do as long as Lancelet didn’t mind seeing her legs too much. She allowed herself a brief smile at the indecency of the thought before checking her face briefly for potion refuse and heading back downstairs.

She found Lancelet waiting for her by the stables beside his own horse, a beautiful bay with the affectionate name of ‘Worm’. Morgane selected a mild-mannered grey she had taken to using recently and the two of them set off.

If Morgane had been under any allusions that Lancelet was looking for a pleasant country amble, they were quickly assuaged. At once Lancelet kicked off, galloping off the track at break-neck speed in the direction of the woods. Morgane took only a second to gather herself before she was racing off after him. He was going so fast his horse’s hooves raised dust clouds; Morgane had heard him boast often enough of Worm’s speed, still, the horses of Avalon were no slow mules. Morgane urged her horse faster, closing the distance between them until he was no more than six feet away.

Instead of heading into the woods Lancelet steered Worm left, galloping right past them over the little river that separated the grounds from the rest of the island. Morgane felt a swooping of delight as the trees fell away and they were riding into the moors. All around her was rough land in coarse patches of green and brown, so different from the carefully cultivated beauty of the sanctuary. A patchwork covering of purple heather and yellow gorse stretched out for miles, rolling over the rocks and knolls and snatching at her hem as if seeking to stretch the makeshift robe to her shoulders. She could smell bracken on the wind, wild with asphodel and bilberry.

Lancelet looked back at her over his shoulder. He was grinning, the smile of a wild thing. He was still in front of her so Morgane sped up her horse until they were neck and neck. Lancelet’s grin widened as he caught sight of her face, sharp with the flavour of competition.

“The Goddess teach you to ride like that?” he shouted over the wind.

“Amongst other things,” Morgane yelled back.

Lancelet laughed and Morgane was aware of it like she was aware of the wind on her face, stinging her cheeks and eyes and pulling at her hair. Everything was in high-definition, the colours around her a glittering kaleidoscope as they rode faster and faster across the moors, battling each other like they were fourteen years old again and both of them untamed animals.

They raced across almost the entire island, ascending into the high woods where the trees were so tall it almost felt as though they were underwater. When they emerged into the light the lake glittered around them, a vast stretch of sun studded silver, almost white in the brightness of the day. Lancelet’s horse slowed and halted. He slid off its back and Morgane heard a gasp stick in his throat. Pulling at the reigns of her own horse she suppressed a smirk, feeling a sort of smug pride at the beauty of her island, which Lancelet might scorn and mock all he wanted but that wouldn’t save him from falling under its magic.

The lake looked so much bigger from this side of the island. With the tendrils of mist creeping across its surface, hiding the fringes from view it looked as if it could go on forever. At one point it all faded into one; water and mist and sky, and there was no telling what lay beyond or before it. Sunlight penetrated the haze so that the air shimmered like cloth of gold. For Morgane, who had studied alchemy, astrology, elemental mastery and every other conceivable aspect of intellectual sorcery, nothing could ever be so magical.

They sat down in the grass near the island’s edge, surrounded by vibrant clumps of heather. Lancelet snagged the plant between his fingers, tearing at the violet flowers and sending them fluttering into the breeze. There was a frown playing between his brows, something that was more akin to pain than confusion. He was quiet for a long time, hands continuing to tear at the heather as if in compulsive need of something to destroy. Seeing that he needed headspace, Morgane left him to it. She was filled with a warm contentment that had spread throughout her body to the very tips of her fingers, regardless of the chill in the air. She could not remember the last time she had felt so unbridled, so wildly, unashamedly happy.

As midday approached the sun climbed higher, splitting through the clouds and bathing them in gold. Lancelet lay down, his arms behind his head and Morgane followed suit, sneaking a look at him out of the corner of her eye. He was still frowning and there was a hint of troubled water behind the relative calm of his face that Morgane could see jumping in the muscle of his jaw, like the flit of an insect’s wing. The light fell on his honey-dark skin, glowing against the bright green of the grass, making him lovely as summer.

“You came to see me last night,” he said suddenly.

Momentarily thrown, Morgane wrenched her gaze from the curve of Lancelet’s neck to meet his eyes. “Yeah,” she said, because there was absolutely no benefit in lying.

“Thanks,” Lancelet muttered. “That was nice of you.”

There it was again, that word. _Nice._ Morgane tried not to bristle at it. “You looked pretty upset before,” she explained, making it clear it was human decency that had propelled her to action and nothing to do with her personality. “Thought you could use some emotional support.”

The corner of Lancelet’s mouth quirked in a half smile. “Do I look like someone whose emotions need maintenance?”

Morgane raised an eyebrow. _“Lancelet.”_

Lancelet made an acknowledging gesture. “Fair enough.”

They lapsed again into silence. Morgane wanted very desperately to ask, but she knew that her best shot was waiting for him to broach the subject. That was the way to deal with Lancelet. You could not expect to get very far asking him for an emotional answer to a direct question. If you were too forthright he would close up and, like a skittish animal, lash out. You had to play it on his terms, to wait for him to open up to you. He was a little like his mother in that way, only with a sharper sting.

Suddenly Lancelet stretched out across the grass like a cat and Morgane knew she was about to be rewarded for her patience. “I saw some very affecting shit, Morgane,” he stated.

Morgane nodded. “I gathered,” she said, and then: “Do you want to talk about it?”

Lancelet chewed his bottom lip hesitantly before replying. “Not really?”

He was quiet again and Morgane thought the subject was over until at last he spoke again. “The future,” he began slowly. “It’s not…it can be changed, right? It’s not set in stone?”

“Oh Goddess,” groaned Morgane, knocking her head against the earth. “You’re really pulling out the big ones today.”

“But what do they teach you here?”

“I mean,” Morgane struggled, trying to remember the lessons she had managed to stay awake through. “That entirely depends?? So, for example you’ve got your metaphysical tradition which basically says that if X is true then it _always_ has to be true even before X has occurred…which essentially means everything is predetermined…then you’ve got your dualists who think we’re all doomed to the material world of darkness or something…and then there are the autonomists who believe the Gods have a plan…but then we also have free will…so _that’s_ a contradiction-”

“-But what do _you_ think?”

Morgane huffed, turning the demand over in her head. It wasn’t as though she had never contemplated this question before. It was just one of those concepts that in Avalon were known as “Mysteries” and which, if you wanted an easy life, it was generally accepted that you didn’t think too deeply about.  “I think,” she began. “That the Goddess has her will, and all we can really do is try our best to see it done. And I also think that we’re responsible for our actions, and we only have ourselves to blame for the consequences.”

This answer was a cop out, and she knew it. She turned her head to look apologetically at Lancelet, who was still frowning and chewing his lip. “Sorry,” she grimaced. “That was really unhelpful, wasn’t it?”

Lancelet shook his head. “No, it’s fine,” he said tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. “I don’t really know what else I expected.”

He closed his eyes with a sigh, allowing his head to fall back onto the triangle of his arms. Morgane watched him, feeling a little guilty. She felt as though she had rather let him down. Clearly Lancelet had seen some unwelcome future in the mirror, something he wanted to change and Morgane couldn’t even provide him with the comfort that such a thing was possible. Not because it wasn’t, but because she quite honestly didn’t know.

Looking at Lancelet, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the crease in his brow like a single storm in an otherwise calm sea, she thought that for all her studies and Latin, there was really quite a lot that she didn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone still reading this! Please comment and let me know what you think :)


	5. Lot

Lancelet stayed a further two weeks in Avalon. During that time Morgane saw little of him; with the exception of breakfast and dinner he was insistent upon his own company, retreating quickly after each meal to the brooding privacy of his own room. A couple of times he dropped by after or while Morgane was working, when he would then commence to wind her up and cajole her until at last she gave in and relented into going on a ride with him. Apart from these rare instances however, Lancelet seemed resolved upon shutting himself away and the fortnight passed with relatively little disturbance to Morgane’s daily routine.

When at last it was time for him to leave, Morgane accompanied Lancelet and the Ladies to the barge that would take him back to the mainland. Lancelet allowed himself to be hugged by Nim, tensing only a little in her embrace, El bent down to kiss him swiftly on both cheeks and Viv contented herself with a curt nod, which was just as tersely returned. After patiently enduring these ministrations, Lancelet turned to say goodbye to Morgane, standing in front of her rather awkwardly. In time gone by they would have hugged and kissed each other, however they had grown too old and too far apart for that. Yet a simple bow, priestess to kinsman, felt too formal.

“Well goodbye,” said Lancelet eventually.

It looked to Lancelet that Morgane seemed to deflate a little and although there was not a change in her perfectly impassive, priestess’ exterior, her voice was decidedly sullen. “Goodbye.”

The boat was ready and waiting. Lancelet hesitated. Morgane was watching him levelly, her face an exquisite mask. She would not betray herself to look hopeful, still, Lancelet knew there was more he ought to say. He scratched the back of his neck ruefully.

“It was good to see you again, cousin,” he settled on at last. “I hope it won’t be so long till our next meeting.”

As if on its own accord, Morgane’s face broke into a smile. It was small and somewhat reserved, yet it was a smile nonetheless. Lancelet saw before his eyes the cool, detached priestess transform into the girl who had ridden with him through the heather. “It was good to see you too,” she returned. “Don’t come back more cynical.”

“Don’t grow any more boring,” Lancelet retorted.

Morgane’s dark eyes glittered with derision. “It’s a deal.”

Lancelet stepped forwards and embraced her. Her arms tightened around his body, pulling taut the stiff leather of his jerkin and riding cloak. Strange; she was taller than him and strong, her muscles hardened by manual work and exercise, still he always managed to forget what a little thing she was. Her bones were thin compared to his warrior’s form, small and fragile like a bird’s. As her hand brushed the back of his neck, he felt her fingers in his hair. “Are you really going to shave it?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” Lancelet murmured back. He had only said it to annoy his mother, but now he thought he’d better commit. “I think so.”

Morgane let out a huff that Lancelet thought, but wasn’t sure, sounded amused. They released each other and Lancelet bowed respectfully, Morgane returning with a formal inclination of her head. Then he got into the boat.

“Goodbye Gala– Lancelet,” Nim called from the shore as the fairy boatmen pushed the barge across the pebbles and into the lake. “Look after yourself. Stay safe!”

Lancelet returned her wave and continued to gaze behind him at the four women; his mother, tall, fair and queenly, El flame-headed, Viv black as a crow and Morgane, who had already dropped her stiff composure and now stood scowling with her arms crossed over her chest, until they were swallowed by the mist. Once the tips of the tore could no longer be seen above the silvery cloud around him, Lancelet turned back round and bore in silence the long trip across the Lake.

Once he reached the other side he found a fairy guide waiting for him with his horse. Lancelet didn’t know whether he had travelled by portal or by secret path and didn’t much care, being more interested in examining Worm for ill treatment. Regardless of his blood and upbringing, he had heard enough stories of the Little People’s experiments on livestock and was distrustful of any hand but his own to concede Worm to it without reluctance. Satisfied that his horse was in the same shape as when he had left him, he mounted and kicked off for Cadium.

The encampment was but a short ride away and by the time Lancelet arrived it was barely midday. He slowed his horse once the tents were in sight, unwilling to be mistaken for a scout or harbinger of bad news. As he approached the men looked up from where they sat, sharpening their weapons or hunched over the cooking fires. Lancelet saw their eyes narrow and flicker over his dark skin, mouths drawing thin as they took in his tattooed knuckles and Avalonian clothing. Lancelet barely spared them a glance and urged his horse faster, dismounting when he reached the biggest tent.

Two guards stood outside and they tensed the moment Lancelet drew up. Lancelet tethered his horse unconcernedly, acting as though there weren’t two Danish axes held waveringly close to his face.

“Peace,” he snarled with a pointed look, once he had Worm safely secured. “I’m here to see the General. He’s expecting me.”

“Is that you, Lancelet?” came a voice from inside.

The guards lowered their weapons and Lancelet pushed past them roughly, lowering the hood of his cloak as he entered the shelter of the tent. Inside was spacious and suggested luxury, the awnings and the furniture being Roman in style. However, the fraying canvas was dirty and everything inside was worn and sparse, including the man currently hunched over the table. The surface was littered with scrolls and parchment, an enormous map spread out before him dotted with red painted flags like a skin with the pox. General Bors was curled over it, the ends of his black, drooping moustache just brushing the edges, and his long nose too was a scarce inch away. He waved Lancelet in without looking up, reaching for another flag to put into position.

“You’re back,” he remarked, somewhat needlessly. “And good thing too, I was beginning to worry. Some of the men were afraid you had been whisked away for good.”

A seemingly harmless statement, but the underlying implication was not lost on Lancelet, even if it had been on Bors. He gritted his teeth against the unconscious offence and reminded himself that Bors had meant nothing by it. “I told you how long I would be gone,” he said. “It’s not my fault you don’t keep a clerk.”

“And remind me how I’m supposed to pay a clerk,” answered Bors. “When we have barely enough in our stores to keep ourselves stocked with supplies?”

Lancelet shrugged, already bored of the conversation. “You could sell a villa.”

“Haha.” Bors straightened up from the map, clasping his hands behind him and fixing his nephew with a wry gaze to show that he was not impressed. Tall, lanky and pale, there was little by way of familial resemblance between them, apart from the jet-black eyes and hair which Bors kept close cropped just below his ears. His face was thin and slightly pinched, like a grape that had blighted on the vine. Below his long moustache his chin was clean-shaven, a symbol that he was loyal to Rome, although Lancelet knew better than most where those allegiances ended and began. “I see a fortnight of home comforts has done little to sweeten your temperament. How is your mother?”

Lancelet shrugged. “The same,” he replied. “Cryptic. Scheming.”

Bors’ lip quirked in amusement, or what might even have been fond memory. Lancelet felt a flare of irritation. How was it everyone seemed to know Nim better than he did?

“I imagine she took great pleasure in seeing what a promising young captain her son is turning out to be?” said Bors.

“Quite the contrary,” Lancelet sneered. “I think she was disappointed I hadn’t come back from Francia with a changed mind and a heart set on becoming a Druid.”

Bors snorted. “The religious life is not a life for you Lancelet,” he said decisively. “That much is certain.”

“No,” Lancelet agreed, flexing his fingers. The blue woad serpents slithered across his knuckles.

Pleasantries over, Bors turned back to the littered table, gesturing to one of the parchment scrolls. “Well whatever her private reservations,” he said. “The Ladies have come through. Avalon has just sent five hundred troops to help bolster our ranks.”

“Five hundred?” Lancelet repeated, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “That’s almost the entire population.”

“Indeed,” Bors nodded. “They arrived yesterday afternoon. I confess, at first I had my doubts. Most of them are such tiny things, I could scarce believe they would be able to lift a sword. But they’re right handy with those little hatchet things and I swear, in all my years I’ve never seen archers like them. They make me think I should get some of those poisoned arrows for the rest of the men.”

 _They wouldn’t let you,_ Lancelet thought but didn’t say. He wondered if Bors had forgotten that he, the best soldier in the middle infantry if not the entire army, was more than capable of lifting a sword.

“I am putting the entire number under your command,” Bors told him. “You shall have full responsibility in making sure they integrate with the rest of the troops. Any disturbance, any hostility whatsoever you will come directly to me, understood?”

“Yes sir,” Lancelet replied, although he knew he wouldn’t. There was absolutely no way a mixed infantry made up of so many different peoples under the command of someone who looked like him would get along without conflict. He hardly thought the General would appreciate it if he arrived at his tent every time someone made a quip about poisoned water, or blood sacrifice.

“There are a handful of mages in there too,” Bors continued. “Lady Vivienne has given me a list of their names and abilities. She assures me they are well trained and have seen battle…have you worked with mages before?”

Lancelet hesitated, unsure of whether to lie. “Never on the battlefield,” he admitted finally. “However, I spent my early life growing up around mages. I know how to handle them.”

Bors nodded, apparently reassured. “Very well,” he said. “They await your inspection. I suggest you get acquainted with them as soon as possible, although as you say, you may very well know some of them already. First though, get over here.”

Lancelet walked over to the table and Bors shifted to allow him better sight of the map. “Claudius’ men are camped at Valhurst,” he said, tapping at a section scattered with red flags. “However, I have just received word that he has split his army and sent a number of his troops downriver. I thought about sending some men on a night attack, approaching from round the back of Aelmor. What do you think?”

Lancelet shook his head. “Too risky,” he replied, drawing along the map with his finger. “Even under the cover of darkness they have the advantage of the terrain. Without a doubt they’ll have scouts posted here,” he tapped along a valley ridge with his finger. “And here. There’ll be able to see straight down into Aelmor.”

“What if we use the forest?”

Lancelet pulled a face. “I’d be surprised if they didn’t have at least a few men stationed in wait,” he said. “And you’d have to balance the number of men with the logistical difficulties of moving undetected…do you know how many men he has in the valley?”

Bors shook his head. “The scout guessed around seven fifty,” he said. “But he couldn’t be sure. Claudius could have sent more by now. Alright, open field it is.”

“When do we attack?” asked Lancelet.

“Two days,” Bors answered. “Once we hear word from your father. Ban’s men will attack first from Benwick, afterwards, we’ll approach from the East.”

Lancelet nodded, trying to recall the last time he had seen Ban. A thickset, stocky warrior with a curling black beard and a cynical sense of humour, Lancelet had only met the man a few times, and had liked him. His life outside Avalon had been spent predominantly under the tutelage and patronage of his brother, and as a result Lancelet was much closer to his uncle, still, he thought he and Ban probably had quite a lot in common. However, he had gathered both from tentative talks with Bors and from his mother that Ban was still in love with Nim. Lancelet had found this news pitiable and vaguely embarrassing, to the extent that he never had quite as much respect for the king as he felt that he ought.

Bors spent another hour going over the plans for the attack, pausing occasionally to ask Lancelet’s advice or adjust something on his map. When he was done, he dismissed Lancelet who bowed and exited the tent, glowering at the guards who sent him an equally dirty look in response.

The regiment under Lancelet’s command had already been a motley crew, Britons and Romans thrown in with the occasional Frank or Danish mercenary. Not all of them had been thrilled to find themselves under the command of a boy scarcely turned seventeen, however, they had found out very quickly that there was a reason Lancelet had risen to captain in just five years, aside from nepotism. What Lancelet lacked in years he made up for both in ability and maintenance of discipline until it got to the point where his young age became a boost of his men’s respect, rather than a hindrance. Which was just as well, considering his own regiment were the only soldiers to respect him in the entire army.

They were already standing in files as Lancelet approached, diligently awaiting inspection. Lancelet walked down the line, not saying anything but secretly approving. The five hundred Avalonians were stood at the end and were the cause of a substantial dip in the force, most of them standing nearly two heads below the mainland soldiers. They were not all Little People but they definitely stood out the most in their furs and animal skins, bright feathered weapons flashing like jewels. The Ladies’ own soldiers were equipped with the finest work of the island’s craftsmen and Lancelet had to suppress his relief and excitement at the sight of their shining silver armour and elegant blades.

The three mages stood slightly apart, in self-conscious affirmation of their class. Lancelet stopped in front of them and looked them over. Under their armour they were wearing robes indicative of their respective Orders; Lancelet recognised the red of a pyromancer and the brown of a shapeshifter, however he was uncertain of the mage in purple.

“Ēalā,” he greeted them before addressing the purple mage. “Hū leornast þū?”

“Iċ leorniġe psion eorl,” the mage replied.

Lancelet frowned. “Psion?”

The mage nodded. Lancelet gestured. “Show me.”

The mage stepped forward. He held his hands parallel to each other, about six inches apart and fixed his expression into one of intense concentration. Lancelet watched as violet energy began to crackle at the edge of his fingertips, morphing into a ball between the mage’s hands. The mage held it there for a few seconds before suddenly flashing his palms outward. The ball shot out, widening and bursting into a shield with enough force to blight the grass in front of them.

Lancelet raised an eyebrow. It was against his principles to look too impressed, still, the strength of the force-shield spoke for itself.

“Hu hattest þu?” he asked. “What’s your name?”

“Mīn nama is Fion,” replied the mage. “Sunan Nuallán.”

Lancelet nodded. He had heard the name, Nuallán was a well-respected Druid and had been a good Spellsword in his day. He smiled wryly. “Well Fion the Psion,” he said. “You are most welcome here. I look forward to seeing more of your skills on the battlefield.”

Fion inclined his head graciously. “Thank you, sir.”

Lancelet turned to the other two mages. The pyromancer, a woman called Caelia, he already knew, having been educated with Morgane before deciding to pursue her craft instead of becoming a priestess. The shapeshifter’s name was Menw, a dark-haired, surly sort who further tested Lancelet’s indifference by transforming into an enormous grey wolf and back again.

Satisfied, Lancelet dismissed his troops who at once went off in search of food. Lancelet watched the sorcerers go, chattering to each other in excitable Avalonian. He had often thought that Morgane should have made an excellent battlemage. Her talent over most branches of magic was famous, being proficient in Elementalism, Illusionism and channelling, as well as enchantment and Blood Magic. Yet she preferred to sit and waste her time gazing in mirrored surfaces and singing hymns to insatiable gods. Then again, Lancelet reminded himself with a private smile, the immortals were probably the only ones for whom Morgane would ever lower herself to taking orders.

His stomach groaned and Lancelet realised he was hungry, having not eaten since before he had left Avalon. Ordinarily he would eat with his uncle but thought that Bors was probably too busy stressing over the plans for attack to remember to perform basic human functions. He followed his men into the encampment, helping himself to stew and ale and sat alone to eat. His men might respect him, but that didn’t mean they particularly liked him. Lancelet would get hung up over this, except that the feeling was mutual.

While he was eating, he saw a couple of soldiers coming towards him from further across the encampment, laughing and talking in loud, carrying voices. Lancelet pretended not to notice them but watched them warily from beneath his eyelashes, tensing as they drew nearer to him. They were not his men, and although he didn’t know their names he recognised them as loud-mouths from several tavern visits, whose preferred pastimes seemed to rotate around getting drunk and picking fights with anyone within spitting distance.

“Well look at that,” said one of them, stopping just a few feet away from where Lancelet sat. “The fairy’s back.”

“And here I thought we wouldn’t be seeing his pretty face around here again,” the other leered, lip curling with contempt. “Tell us Lancelet, how was life among the witch-whores?”

Lancelet made no response, only stuck a piece of meat with his knife and chewed thoughtfully. The two faces in front of him flickered with annoyance.

“Too good to speak to us,” the former mocked. “The fairy prince. The boy-captain. Then again,” he added thoughtfully, a smirk twisting his lips. “Perhaps he wasn’t interested. Perhaps he missed the company of his own men.”

Lancelet sighed, finally deigning to cast his dark eyes upwards. “Keep it up,” he warned dangerously. “You are in very close proximity to saying something you will regret.”

The soldier spat onto the ground at Lancelet’s feet. “What?” he snarled savagely. “No secret that one way or another you’re a _fucking_ abomination. If the General weren’t your uncle, somebody would have tied you to a stake a long time ago.”

“And to have such a nephew, dark as sin and painted like the devil,” said his friend, eyeing Lancelet’s tattoos with disgust. _“If_ he’s your uncle at all, and the Avalon slut didn’t work her way round to his tent as well. Looks to be quite the family reunion – seems they’ve packed the whole regiment with your brothers and sisters.”

“Perhaps that’s what they mean by the Great Moth-GAGGHHH!”

Lancelet was on his feet. He had bitten the meat off his knife and now he slashed it in a diagonal motion, right across the soldier’s left eye. The man howled as blood pooled between his fingers, welling up from the slash wound like a crimson stitch. He staggered backwards, clutching his face. His friend stared, face white with shock before turning his wide eyes on Lancelet.

“You mad _dog,”_ he yelled, hand going for the knife at his belt.

Before he reached it, Lancelet took a swipe at the man’s back knees with his leg. He tripped, falling to the ground with a surprised _oomf._ Lancelet dived after him, pinning him to the ground with one arm across his neck.  The soldier struggled in his grip but Lancelet held fast, watching with grim satisfaction as the soldier’s eyes bulged upon the realisation that he had underestimated his strength. He attempted to throw him off, still scrabbling for his knife so Lancelet punched him in the face, and twice again for good measure.

“Stop wriggling,” said Lancelet calmly over the man’s shouts, his face black and crimson with the blood running from his mouth and nostrils. “Listen to me. Listen. Can you feel that?”

The man stiffened, face white as bone beneath the warm black blood. He nodded.

“It’s my knife pressed against your balls,” Lancelet clarified, just in case he really was too dumb to work it out. “Yeah, you know, I’m actually surprised. You walk around here like you’ve got gonads the size of dragon-eggs but these,” Lancelet gave them a deliberate squeeze, ignoring the soldier’s yelp. “Olives. At best. And I know we’ve passed harvest season but even so, I’m up for a little light pruning…”

“No, please,” the soldier gabbled as Lancelet pressed the flat of his blade more firmly between his legs. “I’ll do anything, I’m sorry, please don’t-”

“-Or I could just take an eye,” Lancelet considered mildly. “Have you match your friend, here. Maybe _then_ at least you’ll see more clearly which fights are better left avoided.”

“Please…my lord…captain…I’ll do anything, just please don’t take-”

“-Don’t take your balls, right,” Lancelet parroted for him grimly. “Got it.”

He flipped the knife in his hand so that the pommel faced downwards and struck. The man yowled and sobbed, tears flowing from his eyes into his open mouth, mingling with the blood, however, they were also tears of relief. Lancelet climbed off him, brushing the dirt off his breeches as he got to his feet. The soldier stayed on the ground with his eyes squeezed shut, muttering prayers intermingled with curses. A couple of feet away his friend had recovered and was now staggering towards him, still clutching the bleeding half of his face and casting wary looks at Lancelet, as though afraid that at any moment he might attack again. Lancelet flicked his fingers at him.

“Make sure that’s properly cleaned and seen to before its bandaged,” he advised. “You don’t want to lose the other one from infection.”

The soldiers scuttled away, tripping over their legs in their haste and sending terrified fleeting looks over their shoulders. Once they were gone, Lancelet turned around. Several of his own men were on their feet, weapons in hands, ready to defend their captain should the need arise. For some reason, it only served to make him more angry.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” he barked. “Get back to your posts.”

His men saluted and scattered, looking abashed. Scowling, Lancelet stalked past them without another word, retreating to his tent to wash the blood out of his clothing.

*

The weeks passed, and with them, a new tinge of frost seemed to cling to the air with each gone Sunday, covering the woods and hills around Ector’s estate with a fresh layer of silver. The sky hung grey above the stiff grass, thick clouds pregnant and heavy with the promise of snow. Kay and Arthur took to wearing woollen layers under their tunics when they went hawking, their breaths hanging in the air like spiders’ webs every time they blew on their fingers to keep them warm. Christmas was approaching, and the boys’ days were spent hunting game and venison while Priscilla whipped around the house like a mad woman; hoarding kindling, decking every available surface with holly and keeping the stoves heated from morning till night.

Then, as soon as the last plate was cleared and hymn sung Christmas was over, and preparations were being made for the New Years’ tournament. When mass was over, Kay and Arthur spent the evening packing for the trip, putting the new courser to the test with the weight of Kay’s belongings alone. Arthur watched broodily as Kay sat polishing his armour, animatedly discussing jousting tactics with Ector, although he hitched on a smile when Priscilla looked sharply his way. She would not be coming with them, having too much work to do in organising and distributing the leftovers of the holidays to the poor. Besides, she had little patience with what she dubbed an “infantile sport.”

The night before New Years’ Eve, Arthur had a strange dream. He was laying with his head in the lap of a young woman who was sitting with her legs crossed beneath him, stroking his hair. Her own was long and fell in thick, black waves, tickling him. He could not remember having ever felt so comforted, so safe. She was smiling down at him, but there were tears in her eyes and one of them tripped down her cheek, falling onto his face. The sight of it caused him immense sorrow, such as he had never felt before. It swallowed him up until it seemed to overflow from him, like a jug of water filled to the brim and when he woke up, the feeling was still there. Only now it was accompanied by a sharp pain, so physical and violent it was as if a limb had been torn from him.

He sat up in bed, breathing hard and wincing from the hurt, trying to identify its source. It seemed to come from somewhere deep inside his chest. He wiped his face, damp with sweat, and was still trying to calm himself when Kay burst into his room.

“Happy New Year’s Eve,” he bellowed excitedly, the door banging against the wall as he bounded in. Then, catching sight of Arthur he stopped, frowning. “What’s the matter with you?”

Arthur took a deep breath. The ache in his chest was ebbing away slowly, still, his pulse raced and he was shaking hard, in a way that normally signified he was about to have one of what his mother called “his episodes”.

“Nothing,” he answered. “I’m okay.”

Kay glanced at Arthur with wary concern. “Are you having one of your…” he wobbled his head from side to side awkwardly. “You know. Fit things.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, shook his head. “No,” he replied shortly, removing his hand from his forehead. “Just a bad dream.”

Kay still looked unconvinced as Arthur untangled himself from the covers and climbed unsteadily out of bed. “Well,” he said after a while. “Father says to get ready. We’re leaving within the hour.”

Arthur nodded, stretching and clicking his joints. Kay closed the door and Arthur heard him clattering down the stairs, knocking over things in his haste. Arthur sighed, washing himself quickly before donning leather riding jerkin, boots and breaches. There would be no armour for him, as he would not be taking part in the tournament. Still, he put on a mail shirt under his jerkin to give himself the illusion of involvement, although the sword belt he left empty.

When he came downstairs Kay was in the courtyard, coddling his horse. “Who’s a big boy?” he sang, patting the courser’s lumpy neck. “Who’s a big, strong boy?”

“If you’re looking for affirmation, you might want to seek it from somewhere which offers less of a comparison,” Arthur said, strapping his pack to Kay’s old rouncey who huffed at him distrustfully.

Kay gave him a black look, responding with a rude hand gesture that was unfortunately spotted by Priscilla.

“Do that again and I’ll sew your fingers together,” she barked, slapping him over the head. “Right, is everything sorted? Both of you come and have some breakfast. It’s a long day’s ride to Canterbury and I don’t want either of you fainting before you even get to the tournament.”

“Arthur had one of his fits again,” said Kay, taking the bread and butter Priscilla offered him.

Furious, Arthur opened his mouth to abuse Kay for his betrayal, but Priscilla beat him to it. “What?” she demanded, turning fiercely upon Arthur. “This morning? What happened?”

“Nothing _happened,”_ Arthur insisted, glaring at Kay who, having inflicted his intended damage, now smirked and walked away. “I just had a bad dream.”

“Let me look at you,” she commanded and before Arthur could protest grabbed his chin between pincer-like fingers, turning his from face side to side.. “You look pale,” she concluded. “And your hands are shaking. Maybe you shouldn’t go.”

 “For the love of God _,”_ Arthur impatiently hissed, yanking his jaw out of Priscilla’s grip. “I am not about to pass out in my saddle.”

“Like you did once.”

“I was seven! I’m seventeen!”

“There will be a lot of people, Arthur. A lot of crowds. Are you sure you’ll be-”

“Oh, let him alone Pris,” Ector interjected, laying a large, reassuring hand on his wife’s shoulder. “He’s a man now. We didn’t raise him to be molly-coddled. He knows how to handle himself. Right, Arthur?”

Arthur nodded vigorously, grateful for his father’s interruption. He was beginning to feel rather warm with embarrassment and resentful of Priscilla’s excessive concerns, however kindly meant.

Ector was glancing around the courtyard where Kay and Arthur’s horses were both saddled and the one servant going with them was already mounted. “Are we all set?” he inquired. “Excellent, excellent. Well my dear, we shall see you in three days’ hence. And with any luck, a prize or two to show for it!”

“Good luck sweetheart,” said Priscilla, raising on her tip-toes to kiss Kay’s cheeks. “And remember, it’s the taking part that counts. Although, if you _do_ happen to find yourself up against that she-dog Morgause’s kin…”

“Lot’s sons don’t stand a chance against me,” answered Kay pompously, drawing himself up to his full height. “I promise you that.”

Arthur snorted.

“Goodbye my son,” Priscilla embraced Arthur, withdrawing to frown at him severely. “Look _after_ yourself.”

Arthur rolled his eyes again, assured her that he would. After Priscilla had finished adjusting the fastenings of her husband’s travelling cloak, Ector, Kay and Arthur mounted their horses and, with a final wave of farewell, trotted out of the courtyard and onto the road to Canterbury.

The city was roughly 260 miles from Ector’s country estate and a full day’s ride on horseback. For a not inexperienced rider like Arthur it was no great trial and for the most part he enjoyed the journey, admiring the rolling patchwork of green hills and yellow fields and relishing the feeling of fresh air in his lungs. The seasonal frost was beginning to melt and the new year’s sun broke boisterously through the grey clouds of winter, spilling light over the fringes of the English countryside and filling Arthur with fresh cheer. By late afternoon however, he could feel himself starting to tire, his back aching with the effort of sitting upright, and he couldn’t suppress his relief upon catching his first sight of the cathedral, spire glinting distantly in the fading light.

As they clattered through the gates they saw instantly that the city was already poring with people, everywhere buzzing with vendors and tourists flocking to and from the marketplace. Ector led the way through the cobbled streets, nudging past the merchants who attempted to hail him and through the thin divide that separated the wooden townhouses, several of which had been newly scrubbed and painted for the occasion. Eventually they came to a large inn, the tenants of which could already be heard ringing from several doors down.

Ector dismounted from his horse and the others did the same, handing a silver to the stable boy waiting patiently to take the reins. Inside was just as busy as the noise had suggested, still early and yet the walls creaked with raucous laughter and drunkards singing bawdy songs. It was so packed they had to weave their way between tables, careful not to bump into anybody who might take it as an invitation to violence.

“Sir Ector’s household,” Ector informed the innkeeper before muttering to his sons. “Good thing I sent a letter ahead, or we might never have gotten a room.”

Arthur looked around to examine the inn’s occupants. Several of the men plying themselves with wine were wearing mail and armour just as Kay was and Arthur assumed they too would be entering the tournament. Many of them seemed to be around their age although a fair few of them looked to be quite a bit older; mature men with beards that greatly surpassed Kay’s adolescent stubble and Arthur’s futile attempts.

Ector paid the innkeeper the rest of his deposit and ordered dinner to be brought to their table. Arthur sat down to the roast chicken with an enthusiasm that not even Kay’s unsubtle efforts to flirt with the serving wench could deter. After washing it down with a couple of tankards of good ale, Kay and Arthur left Ector to chat with the lords he knew while they headed upstairs to carry Kay’s things to their room.

“Jesus,” Arthur cursed as this transpired to be a rather more difficult feat than imagined. “How much stuff did you _bring?”_

“Not that much,” Kay snapped, nearly tripping over a step in his attempt to balance the jousting equipment between himself and Arthur.

“Why do you need _five lances?”_

“Do you know how jousting works? What if one breaks?”

“But _five lances._ That suggests you’re going to last longer than _five minutes._ ”

“Shut up,” Kay barked, trying to wipe sweat from his brow and promptly losing his grip on two of the lances in question.

“Need some help there, lads?”

Arthur turned around as best as he could with the weight of all the baggage he was carrying. A young man was grinning at them from the foot of the stairs. He looked to be around Kay’s age, although he was much taller, and broad, his shoulders alone nearly double the width of Arthur’s. He had a strong-jawed, handsome face, adorned with the kind of stubble that promised a magnificent beard should he have allowed it, and shoulder length dark hair thrown back in a way that betokened casual, but was quite obviously carefully kept.

Kay spared one look at the stranger and curled his lip. “We’re fine,” he said, quite rudely.

The young man scratched the back of his neck. “Are you sure?” he said, and Arthur noticed he had a strong Scottish accent. “You look like you could use a hand.”

The observation, true as it was, only served to irk Kay further. _“Fine,”_ he repeated through gritted teeth.

“We could use a hand,” admitted Arthur.

Kay stared at him with an expression of deepest betrayal. Arthur, who hadn’t forgotten his ratting him out to Priscilla, ignored him, tipping a lance and couple of bags into the stranger’s waiting hands.

“Are yous thinking about moving into the cathedral?” he asked, smiling wryly as the three of them struggled up the stairs.

“No,” snapped Kay, huffing as he reached the top.

Fortunately, their room was one of the first few on the landing. Arthur felt his limbs groan with relief as he dropped the heavy burden onto the floor. The stranger laid the bags and lance carefully beside them and straightened up, shoving his hands into the pockets of his breaches. He looked as though he had hardly broken a sweat.

“Thanks,” said Arthur, offering his hand.

“No problem,” the young man replied, shaking it. “Name’s Gawain. Of Orkney, if you couldn’t tell.”

 _“Lot’s son_ Gawain?” Kay demanded at once, not even bothering to disguise his hostility.

Arthur resisted the temptation to slap his palm against his forehead. Luckily, Gawain appeared more amused than offended.

“Aye, the very same,” he confirmed with a mock inclination of his head. “Looks like infamy has its advantages if it serves for so speedy a recognition.”

“I’m Arthur,” said Arthur quickly, before Kay could cause any further insult. “And this is my brother, Kay. We’re Sir Ector’s sons.”

Gawain nodded in remembrance. “I know the man,” he stated. “Met him a few times, although not since I were a bairn. A good man, as his reputation and my memory proceeds him.”

Arthur inclined his head in recognition of the compliment, slightly embarrassed that he was unable to return it. Surely Gawain was well aware of exactly what everyone in England thought of his own father’s reputation. The sardonic twist at the corner of Gawain’s smile seemed to imply that he knew just what Arthur was thinking and, rather than shaming him further, actually made him relax a bit.

Even if he wasn’t aware, Kay was certainly making it more than obvious. “Ector _is_ a good man,” he said fiercely. “Loyal, too.”

This time, Arthur resisted the temptation to slap Kay. Gawain, however, merely raised an eyebrow. “Admirable qualities in a king’s servant,” he conceded courteously. “Unfortunate that we don’t seem to _have_ one of those at the minute.”

“Yet,” Kay retorted forcefully.

Instead of responding, Gawain smiled politely at Kay as if he found him a charming, though perplexing sort of specimen such as he had never seen before. Embarrassed now for his brother’s sake rather than Gawain’s, Arthur thought it was time to steer the conversation out of the dangerous waters.

“Will you be competing in the tournament?” he asked, noting that Gawain was dressed in an expensive cloak and tunic rather than mail.

Gawain nodded. “I gave my armour to my brother for polishing,” he explained. “God help me but he just loves it. I think his life’s ambition is to be someone’s squire. I suppose I ought to be a wee concerned but hey, it works out for me.”

Arthur laughed while Kay looked disgruntled, no doubt taking in Gawain’s height and considerable build, the fine material of his tunic doing little to disguise his evident muscle.

“Is your whole family here?” asked Arthur.

Gawain shook his head. “Just me ma and Gareth, and my father of course,” he added, with just the ghost of a smirk. “Two of my brothers are off fighting the Picts in Humber and the youngest is at home.” He hesitated, appearing to weigh up his next words carefully before placing them on his tongue. “Would you care to meet them?”

“Very much,” said Arthur politely. Kay stared at him.

Gawain waved at them to follow him and, Kay with decidedly ill-grace, they headed back downstairs where they found Ector already talking to a tall, dark-haired man with a pointed beard and a woman with shining coppery hair. Arthur couldn’t help but notice that even while he seemed to be chatting amiably with the couple, Ector’s smile seemed rather fixed. They looked up at the boys as they entered, and the dark-haired man’s face twisted in sardonic amusement.

“Look at that,” he said, in a voice as smooth as oil. “It seems as though you’ve already gotten acquainted.”

“One could say the same,” replied Gawain easily. “Arthur, Kay, this is my father King Lot of Lothian and Orkney and my mother, Queen Morgause.”

“The pleasure is ours,” replied Morgause with a smile. “We had heard that Sir Ector’s boys had grown into fine and strapping lads. I did not know I would have the joy of meeting them so soon.”

Arthur tried to return a similar greeting, but found that the words had been quite robbed from his throat. His mother had referred to Lot’s wife as a gorgon and a harpy so many times that he was quite unprepared for meeting her in the flesh. Queen Morgause was strikingly beautiful.  She could not have been much younger than forty, still, her skin was taut and supple and her hair shone with a red fire that was almost violent. Her eyes were green as a cat’s, heavenly lined with kohl, and her cheeks and mouth too were painted crimson. She wore a low-cut green dress, displaying a tiny waistline and generous bosom, at which it took all of Arthur’s resistance not to stare.

“Which one of you boys will be taking part in the tournament?” asked Lot, glittering black eyes glancing from Arthur to Kay, the latter of whom was presently drooling at his wife.

“That would be Kay,” replied Ector with a nod at his son, who managed to rouse himself into some degree of bleary-eyed focus. “My eldest.”

“Ah,” nodded Lot, scratching at his sharp chin. “Shame about these new regulations, don’t you think? Restricting it to one champion per household. What rubbish! _Ad victorium spolias,_ is what I say. And if one family performs a little better, then what of it? Nothing for motivation like a little healthy competition, eh lads? Certainly did wonders for my boys.”

“Father please,” muttered Gawain under his breath as Kay looked increasingly red-faced.

“This’ll be Gawain’s second go at it,” Lot informed Ector, clapping his son on the shoulder. “He did very well last year. Out-performed both of his brothers. Aggravaine and Gaheris have sent themselves off to fight Picts in embarrassment. By rights it should be Gareth’s turn, but Gawain did so well we thought we’d give him another shot at it. Besides, Gareth seems to prefer watching than participating.”

“He’s a gentle boy, my son,” said Morgause fondly. “The elder three are all raging bulls, but both the littluns are gentle boys.”

“And how is your youngest?” asked Ector, swiftly changing the subject. “Mordred, isn’t it? He must be getting on for fourteen now?”

Morgause nodded, a fleeting concern coming into her eyes as she pursed her crimson lips together. “He is frail,” she replied tightly. “He has always had a delicate constitution. His father wanted to bring him,” she added, glancing reproachfully at Lot. “But I made him stay home. I hate to leave him actually, but my husband insisted I come along.”

Under his wife’s piercing glare, Lot looked somewhat sheepish. “He’ll do without you for a little while, wife,” he replied uncomfortably. “If he dies within the next few days I promise to reimburse you with another.”

“If he dies within the next few days, I’ll know very well with which life to reimburse him,” Morgause retorted, her voice dagger sharp.

Kay and Arthur exchanged awkward glances, quite unsure how to react. Gawain, however, appeared quite unperturbed, as if the situation was quite normal for them. Eventually, Lot forced out a laugh which to Arthur’s ears sounded more than a little strained.

“This what happens when you marry a woman with a viper’s tongue,” he informed Ector with unconvincing joviality. “I hope your wife doesn’t give you such aggravation, Ector.”

“We have an understanding,” Ector answered thinly. “When she is right, I obey. Unfortunately, she is right most of the time.”

Lot, Morgause and Ector laughed heartily, in the way that people who quite obviously do not like each other often feel obliged to, even when no one has said anything particularly funny. Gawain caught Arthur’s eye and mimed retching. Arthur found himself grinning back.

“Well,” said Lot, once they had all decided the amusement had gone on long enough to be civil. “I suppose we had all better be getting off to bed. Early start and all that.”

“A pleasure to meet you boys,” said Morgause, her eyes landing on Arthur who suddenly found his mouth to be rather dry.

Gawain clapped his forearm as he passed. “Be seeing yous,” he said, nodding at Kay who scowled.

Arthur watched him go, admiring the graceful, self-assured swagger with which he carried himself that spoke of nothing less than complete confidence. Looking to his right however, he saw that both his father and brother wore matching expressions of grim distrust.

“There goes the most avaricious family in Britain,” spoke Ector dourly. “Watch out for them, especially those sons of theirs. If Lot has his way, you could find yourself on the wrong side of the next High King of England.”

“Hear that, Arthur?” jeered Kay. “Getting all cosy with a Lothian. What were you thinking, asking him for help?”

“I was _thinking_ here was someone to help carry _your lances,”_ Arthur retorted angrily. “Which are very clearly _too big for you.”_

They bickered all the way up back up the stairs and, by the time Ector had blown out the last candle and told them both to get some rest, they were still arguing.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arthur please, your gay is showing
> 
> as much as I would like to claim i made up a language, "Avalonian" is just Old English. Also about Mordred - i'm doing something really strange with him/Morgause/Arthur (it's not what you think). it may or may not work out. It'll be fun, though. promise.
> 
> Please comment if you enjoyed! i'm finished with exams now so updates should be happening more frequently :)


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